


The Gift of Me

by Sparcina



Series: Iron Webs to Covet [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkward Flirting, Awkward situations, BAMF Peter Parker, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Drunk Peter, Exhibitionism, Finger Sucking, Foot Massage, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Morphine-induced confessions (of a sort), Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Peter Feels, Peter knows what he wants, Peter-centric, Pining Peter, Possessive Peter, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Peter, Protective Tony Stark, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret Crush, Shared desire, Slow Burn, Super Soldiers, Tony is 40 something, Tony still has the arc reactor, Virgin Peter, Voyeurism, accidental innuendos, caring Tony, explicit fantasies, not quite phone sex, peter is 16, protective May, self-fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-04 17:52:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: There’s a very good reason Peter hasn’t taken Mr. Stark up on his offer. It’s the same reason he can’t sleep at night and takes what Mr. Stark calls ‘fucking unnecessary risks’.Love. And it hurts like hell.





	1. The Thorn to My Rose

**Author's Note:**

> There are not enough SpiderIron fics by far, which is why I've somehow ended up writing about this pairing instead of posting more Frostiron.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter knows it’s one-sided, but it doesn’t make it any easier.  
> Love is a bitch.

Peter knew he’d made the right call by refusing the new suit, and his own set of rooms in the brand new Avengers headquarters. At least, that’s what he told himself as he walked back to his aunt May’s apartment and his 'old' suit, shoulders hunched, cold and altogether miserable.

He couldn’t have accepted Mr. Stark’s offer. He’d wanted to, badly. To be that closer to the man he’d admired for years, always ready to answer a call, _his_ call… He would have given away a great deal for the privilege of basking in that formidable presence. He would have been his shadow, his bodyguard, the partner Captain America had never been: a loyal soldier who would obey every command without demands of his own.

Peter rubbed the heel of a palm over his eyes and sighed. He would tie a ribbon around his neck in a silent offering in Mr. Stark’s office if he’d thought it helped. He wanted…

… and that was exactly why he’d said no.

Of course, not being an Avenger officially didn’t mean he wasn’t called on Avengers business. Every time he saw that caller ID flashing on his cellphone (he’d taken on seeing the numbers everywhere, including the clock in his maths class, the lines of code on his computer, just as every coffee he drank late at night reminded him of those brown eyes, too observant and blindingly beautiful), his heart would do this funny squeeze. The ache would be back. And that was when he didn’t see the man face to face.

He had it bad. Very bad. He hadn’t kept count of the times he’d jerked off to the thought of Mr. Stark asking for his mouth on his, for his mouth on _him_ (heat flared beneath his skin), but he was pretty sure it was more often, and more intense, than any sexual experience he’d ever had. Being a virgin at his age sucked, but being a virgin rooting for Tony Stark sucked even more, because there was no chance in hell that his mentor would ever seek him out for _that_ purpose.

“Damn it.” He kicked a pebble, biting down his lip as he felt water on the tip of his nose. Right, rain. He was a spider; rain didn’t matter, and it suited his state of mind very well.

He started to jog, thinking it would help him clear his mind. He should have known better: Mr. Stark was anchored deep into him, his smile, gazes and touches imprints in flesh memory. He ran in the middle of one deserted alley after the other, relishing in the feel of rain pouring over him. Who could see the tears then? He couldn’t tell himself where the rain begin, and they end.

“You just don't do anything I would do... and definitely don't do anything I wouldn't do.” Still he could hear the voice, a warning wrapped in a joke. Warm, like everything about that man. And yes, _paternal._

If it’d merely been a crush, or simple lust, Peter would have manned up and said yes to that offer. After all, you could live in close quarters with the object of your fixation and dismiss the desire. After a time. With a lot of efforts and even more masturbation, especially at his age. Peter would have suffered through daily hard-on and perpetual frustration if it’d meant he could stay close. Watch and covet, enjoy whatever shade of affection Mr. Stark chose to give him.

Affection.

Fists balled to his sides, Peter launched skywards and reached for the wall of the apartment building, fingers and toes instantly sticking to bricks. With a thread of spider silk, the window to his bedroom opened a crack, enough for his slim body to slide in.

Affection. Peter slammed the window close behind him. It echoed the pounding of his heart, hard and radical.

He didn’t reply to his cellphone when Ned called, didn’t open his emails. He just toed off his shoes and kicked them under the bed. Anger, especially wrapped in desperation, had never been an easy foe to fend off. Not for him, anyway.

Affection. _Love._

What he felt for Mr. Stark went way beyond the interest he’d shown Liz. Whole orders of magnitude beyond, actually. Liz was a beautiful, sweet girl. He liked her, still did, but not in the way he longed for his mentor.

“I’m so fucked,” he croaked in the dark, sinking slowly into his bed.

*

That night, he dreamt of Mr. Stark. He dreamt of Mr. Stark quite often.  

“Hello, Peter.”

A warm hand made its way down his lower back, setting on a hip, squeezing. Possessive. All the air in Peter’s lungs left him.

“Can I…”

“Shh…” The voice was every bit as warm as the hand. He felt a line of naked skin pressed to his side. Was Mr. Stark naked? Was he naked? He heard a chuckle close to his ear, and shivered violently (ecstatic) as the hand that worked wonders cupped an ass cheek. Teeth sank in the shell of an ear as whispers rose into the thick air of the room. Bedroom?

Not knowing how he’d ended up in Mr. Stark’s lap and certainly not caring as long as he stayed there, he twisted his head around, eager to see those dark, knowing eyes. He hoped the pupils would be blown, like his were.

“Kiss me.”

He didn’t know who had said the words, but suddenly he was caught in a hungry kiss. Mr. Stark worked his mouth like an instrument, and his lips tasted like copper and the suit (how did he know how the suit tasted?), an agonizing marriage in wonder, tantalizing that had him instantly addicted.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” said a deep voice. Peter’s breath caught as those lips closed on his chin, teased a collarbone, and his hands, those agile, wonderful hands, they went _lower_ and touched…

*

He woke up to the sound of his alarm clock. School, he thought, still caught in the texture of his dream. His cock throbbed from where it arched over his belly. Flat belly. A teenager's belly, and body. How could Mr. Stark ever look at him like _this_? The thought didn’t subdue his desire, as if his body wished to punish him, somehow. He was hard as a rock, close to his climax, and he hadn’t even touched himself (consciously at least) yet.

With the back of a trembling hand, he wiped the tears he’d shed as his subconscious had fought against what he knew to be real.

His heart was breaking, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Nobody could.

The reason was simple: he loved Mr. Stark, and no matter how much Mr. Stark may care for him, it wasn’t with that all-powerful love that drove a sane man to insanity.

*

“That’s great work you did today, kid.”

Peter coughed and blushed simultaneously as Mr. Stark clapped him on the shoulder. Kid. Peter knew his feelings were one-sided, but hearing the man call him _kid_ just twisted the proverbial knife in the wound. Nevertheless, he smiled, because loving someone didn’t mean you got what you wanted, only that you should make the other person as happy as possible. And it’d been Peter’s new life purpose for a while now to make sure Mr. Stark got from him everything that he could possibly want.

The other Avengers (minus Captain America and crew) settled in the living room. Barton was already sprawled on one couch all by himself, a drink in a hand and his bow in the other (Peter had a moment to wonder if the archer slept with it). Once he’d somehow regained his composure, Peter made a beeline for the only one person chair in the room, thinking that he deserved, at least for now, a small measure of reprieve. Mr. Stark was a tactile person, he reminded himself, feeling how his shoulder still tingled from the small, casual touch. Peter loved it, as much as it hurt him to have him so close, and yet so far.

“You don’t look so good, kid. What’s wrong?”

Peter almost jumped out of his skin. Mr. Stark had appeared out of nowhere, and instead of a friendly pat, he’d decided to sit on one of the arms of his chair. A tanned hand brushed against his arm, and Peter had to suppress a very telling sound nobody needed to hear, especially the man practically leaning towards him.

Damn it.

“N-nothing.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man drawled, crossing his legs as if he was used to choose the least comfortable sitting option in any given room. “You look out of sort, and I’m not the kind of man to ignore my teammates’ needs.”

“You don’t…” _Teemmate. Needs._ Peter fought back a blush, struggling for words. “It’s all right, Mr. Stark. I’m…” He was getting desperate for an excuse now. “… tired. School, you know?”

“I know, yes.”

Did he? He looked at him sharply, one eyebrow lifted in consideration. Peter schooled his expression into innocence. He had the face for it, his aunt once told him, making the both of them laugh.

He didn’t feel like smiling now. Not while Mr. Stark looked like he could see past every wall Peter built around his feelings. If he knew… Peter didn’t want to imagine what his reaction would be, didn’t want to think about it long enough to decide if mockery or pity would be worse.

“You want something to drink? Non alcoholic, of course.”

Peter winced. A reminded of his age, again.

“No, thanks.”

Mr. Stark had stopped typing on his Stark Pad, but he was still tilting his glass of scotch this way and that, one elbow propped on a hip, as if playing with his glass helped him think. Peter tore his gaze from that hand; while it wasn’t making his pulse spike like his face did, those strong and calloused hands still fed too many fantasies (whatever you need from me, Mr. Stark, please) that he’d better turn his attention elsewhere, let’s say the floor. It was a nice floor, black tiles that had never figured in a dream of him kneeling for the man still watching him, of course.

Don’t look at me, he wanted to say. He was a breath away from pleading for the direct opposite. See me. See what I would do for you, if you’d let me.

Enough, he chided himself. He cleared his throat, hoping the blush could be blamed on the typical embarrassment of being the sole focus of Mr. Stark’s attention.

“I’m fine, really.” He really wished for a drink now. “Kicking asses is fun, but there are always risks, and…”

“Risks you shouldn’t take so lightly, kid.”

Was he imagining things or was Mr. Stark closer to him now? He was too warm. Peter needed to get away.

“The kid is good,” Barton said from across the room. “Everyone has to take risks, Stark.”

“Not him, he doesn’t,” Mr. Stark replied with authority.

I’m not a child! The words lingered just behind Peter’s lips. A familiar frustration bubbled up in his chest. He forced it down, away with all that painful force of a love.

Mr. Stark touched his shoulder. Again. Peter closed his eyes, gathering his strength.  

“We shall talk again, Peter.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Stark.”

He exhaled slowly. Now alone on his seat, Peter tugged his knees close to his chest, feigning fatigue. The others had stuck a conversation about their latest fight. Barton mentioned Rogers, and Peter saw how Mr. Stark tensed, froze in the process of pouring himself a second glass. Peter pictured himself going to the man and reaching for that white-knuckled hand. To soothe him. To help in any way he could.

To love, and have him know he was loved.

He got to his feet. “I’m going home.”

Mr. Stark’s attention was back on him. “You want a lift? I could…”

“No, s’all right.”

Lies.

“See you around.”

They were all looking at him now.

“You don’t have school today,” Ms. Potts pointed out, smiling sweetly. She was so nice to him. Peter wondered if “You could stay for dinner, if you want.”

“We will order…”

“Something healthy, for a change."

Mr. Stark pouted. Peter averted his gaze. While Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark weren’t together anymore, he didn’t dare imagine her reaction was she to find about about the private wishes of her ex-boyfriend's protégé .

“I have homework. But thank you.”

He smiled. Another lie. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the building, feeling a painful tug as part of his heart stayed behind.

It was all lies.


	2. Your Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Stark demands that he stays behind. Peter has not become a superhero by following orders.

With a bounce in his step, Peter strode into the living room. The others were already there, Barton adjusting his newest and favorite quiver on his back, Rhodey shouting orders on the phone, Widow sheathing another blade _under_ the heel of a platform boot...

His eyes skipped the rest of the team to land on Mr. Stark. Already in his suit, faceplate up, the man caught Peter’s searching eyes and smiled. The smile, albeit pretty, didn’t quite reach his eyes. Peter swore inwardly, already knowing that whatever Mr. Stark was going to tell him, he wouldn’t like it one bit.

“Hey, kid.”

“Mr. Stark.” He barely caught himself in time. Tony, he’d wanted to say. Tony, he would think at night, as he lay alone in his bed, yearning, _hoping_. God knew the man had told him often enough to use his given name, but Peter couldn’t. When he said ‘Mr. Stark’, it came out as respectful, polite, with the necessary implied distance. He was too used to the name for the it to betray him now. ‘Tony’, however… Four letters, private and hot as he touched himself at night, thinking of the forbidden attraction that simply wouldn’t fade. A lover’s moan, a suitor’s confidence. Mr. Stark didn’t deserve the embarrassment, not after everything he’d done for him.

So Mr. Stark it was. For better or for worse, Peter knew that he couldn’t use the man’s given name to his face without shedding at least part of his feigned indifference. He also knew that once he used it, even once, he would need to say other things, and then there would be no going back. He wasn’t sure he would survive the shame.

Talking of shame… “What?” he blurted out.

“I said,” Mr. Stark repeated impatiently, “that you will have to sit that one out.”

“Why?”

“Don’t go all monosyllabic on me now, kid.” The faceplate descended over the his face, hiding brown eyes Peter loved and feared in equal measure. They held knowledge, those eyes, and depths of mesmerizing powers.  

Peter squared his shoulders, trying to come up with a reasonable argument as he drew himself to his full (pathetic) height. He knew he was ridiculous even before he did it, but desperation was a cruel master. “Ok, so why can’t I come?”

“Too dangerous,” the artificial voice replied.

“Seriously, that’s your excuse?”

“It’s not an excuse.” The suit’s eyes lit up. They were nothing like Mr. Stark’s eyes.

Peter missed the voice most of all, but he was too busy being incensed to mourn the change. “But I want to come.” Childish, his mind supplied. He told it to shut up. “I can help.” Now he sounded desperate; hardly better. “I’m fully equipped.”

“And you’re my responsibility. Your aunt is a very frightening woman, Peter.”

At last, his name; but that was the only thing going right about this conversation.

“Mr. Stark, I am perfectly able to…”

“You will do as I say.” The tone was hard and merciless.

Peter lifted his chin, lips drawn into an angry line. Iron Man and Spiderman held each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity, and Peter knew it was another test. Of what, and to what end, he wasn’t sure. He ached to protest further. He wasn’t Mr. Stark’s responsibility; he had to make that clear.

Simmering just below that ache was the urge to flip that faceplate up and go for that kiss. He felt himself shiver in anticipation and broke eye contact, stepping back to be on the safe side.

“Stark!”

“Yes, I see it, Barton.”

Orange light flashed in the distance; an explosion. It sounded closer than it was.

Peter felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You will be well protected here. You. Stay. Here. Understood?” Before Peter could protest that Mr. Stark was _his_ to protect, the man added: “Friday, keep an eye on him, will you?”

Peter rolled his eyes. He tried to relax, but every muscle in his body tensed anew the Avengers left the room.  

Minus him, of course. He could hear Ned’s voice, telling him that yes, it sucked to be sixteen.

“Friday?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“Is there any reason why I should stay behind?”

“Mr. Stark had weighted the pros and cons of your participation and decided against it.”

“Well, no shit.” He started to pace the room, too nervous, too angry, itching for the action he wouldn’t get. Frustration tasted foul in his mouth. How could he have convinced Mr. Stark that he needed him? That _he_ needed _him_? “Why, Friday?” What if he sounded petulant? Only the AI heard him. “I want to know why.”

“That I can’t tell you, Peter.”

He came to a halt, stunned. Puzzlement tasted bitter-sweet taste; some improvement at last. “Is it because he hasn’t told you why or because he told you not to tell me?” When the AI failed to answer, Peter slammed his fist into his open palm. “A _kid_ ,” he snarled. How could he ever forget that it was the only thing he would ever be to that man? He tried not to let the anger win, because it wasn’t fair for Mr. Stark, it wasn’t his fault if he didn’t, couldn’t, love Peter.

Anger won this round. Taking out his suit with shaking hands, Peter jogged down two floors and stormed into the gym, where he got his fists reacquainted with a punching ball. Watching his arms stretch and curl in front of him reminded him of how frail and _young_ he was, and while it depressed him a little, the satisfying sound of his gloved fists hitting the ball made up for it. He worked himself into a sweat, delivering punches and kicks as hard as he could, for a long as he could, barely noticing the ache slowly creeping up into his muscles. An hour into it, and he couldn’t tell if the wet patches on his cheeks were tears or sweat.

“Friday,” he panted, “update on the fight?”

“Of course, Peter.”

The large screen on the wall lit up with pictures of the battle. The first Avenger to appear was the Hulk, who punched his way through a department store chasing a two-feet-tall Doombot. Peter whined in dismay. Doombots, really? How was that considered a threat to his spidery person? Rubbing at his temples, he sat down on the training mat and watched the screen raptly. Doombots. They’d fought Doombots before. Actually, it was their most common foe, just after Hydra and right before aliens on vacation.

And he was damn good at fighting Doombots, thank you very much.

Still, he followed the fight in silence, wishing all the while that things were different. That he was older, maybe. And taller. More… imposing. He could have dealt with being singled out if there had at least been a _purpose_ to it. He could…

No, he chided himself, hugging his knees to his chest. He was getting ahead of himself once again. If Mr. Stark had told him to stay at headquarters, he must have had a reason. When you respected someone, you couldn’t doubt each and every one of their decisions.

Especially if you loved them on top of it.

“Friday?!”

All of a sudden, a bright light flared in the middle of the screen, right where Iron Man had been caught flying by the cameras only seconds prior. Peter jumped to his feet. “Friday. Talk to me!” Panic had crept into his voice; it ought to, with how it’d replaced the blood in his veins. Adrenaline was nothing.

“Mr. Stark is not injured, but the Suit is losing power,” the AI announced in clipped tones.

“That’s it, I’m going.” Peter ran to the door and yanked it open, climbing up the stairs two at a time. The next door opened automatically, and Peter called the suit to him with one snap of his wrist. He put it on in record time; Ned would have been impressed.

“Mr. Stark…”

“Mr. Stark,” he snapped, “needs my help. Don’t try to lock me in, or it won’t be pretty.”

The threat was mostly empty, so he expected more resistance as he ran towards a window. He braced himself for impact, but the glass slid sideways a fraction of a second before he could smash into it.

“Thanks, Friday!”

Hanging tight on the spider silk thread he’d thrown at the top of a nearby tree, he crossed the sky like one of Barton’s arrows. Intermittent explosions acted like a beacon to his frantic heart. Mr. Stark, falling, and him… He ws too far. Always too far. He had to hurry. He felt how the abused muscles of his arms and shoulders protested as he tried to break the sound barrier (or something like that).

“Fuck!”

A beam of light had gone right through one of his threads, turning it into ashes. Shooting obscenities at the Doombot already heading back towards Iron Man, Peter asked his own suit for a change of beat.

“The explosive kind, please.”

A spider silk time bomb flew at high velocity towards its target. Peter didn’t detonate it yet; he yanked the organic ball back at him, Doombot included, then hurled the package sideways, in another Doombot’s direction.

Pretty explosions happened on impact. It would have been prettier, of course, if Iron Man hadn’t still been in danger of hitting the ground a good fifty meters below.  

“Mr. Stark!” he called on the com. “Mr. Stark!”

“Bloody hell, kid!” A hoarse, deep voice, that hung a grin on Peter’s lips. “What have I told you?!”

“You needed help.” Peter thought he sounded very reasonable. Almost casually, he sent another spider silk time bomb in the midst of a Doombot armada. “So I came.”

“There was a reason I told you to stay put!”

Peter grimaced at the voice shouting straight into his eardrum. Stark Industries ear plugs and mics were of the highest quality.

“Focus, Stark.” That was Barton. “We’re far from done here.”

“Don’t you think I know that?!”

Peter dove for Mr. Stark… Just before he could catch a metallic wrist, the Iron Man suit went back online. Peter quickly jumped out of his way, trapping a Doombot in a sticky web as he turned the corner of an apartment building. He didn’t know this part of town, but he wished he had the means to buy his aunt a place here.

“Kid…”

Peter sent a duo of Doombots flying into a garbage bin. He covered them with spider silk for good measure, and waved at a couple of teenagers hiding nearby.

“Need a lift, guys?”

“KID, WATCH OUT!”

The next thing Peter knew, pain flooded his right arm, and it was his turn to plummet to the ground.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some twelve chapters planned now because you rock! I will update as fast as I can, but there’s another multi-chapter SpiderIron I’ve started writing (and a SpiderIron OS, and twenty Frostiron, etc.), so you might have to wait a little. Please be patient :)  
> PS: I might (might) be able to post the first chapter of that other SpiderIron tonight (crosses fingers).


	3. Stitches to the Wrong Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wound is ugly, but the stitches are pretty. Very pretty.

"You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?"

Peter shot Ned an apologetic look. He'd been so lost mind-wandering that he'd completely forgotten his friend's presence.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said… ah, never mind.”

“If you're sure,” Peter mumbled sheepishly, rubbing at the long red slash on his forearm, his most recent gift from the city’s villains. The wound went deep, almost to the bone; he'd screamed as the sharp metallic appendage had cut through skin and muscles. If he hadn't pried himself free from the Doombot in time... Shivering uneasily, he pressed his thumb into the thickest part of the wound. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt. And the stitch marks... They were pretty. Very pretty.

Ned waved an arm in front of his face. Right. He was daydreaming again.

"I'm sorry, really." Peter sighed, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt lest he went back to play with the stitches. "I guess it's been a rough couple of weeks. I will make it up to y…"

"It’s ok, don’t worry." Ned gestured at the wound Peter had been busy touching, adoring, for the past half hour. "I know you've got a super immune system and everything, but that looks downright nasty. No wonder you keep wearing those long sleeved-shirts, even though you hate to cover your arms."

Peter bit back a smile. There was one exception to the sleeve rule, of course: his suit. And even more so the improved version Mr. Stark had created for him.

"It's not as bad as it looks." It really wasn't, with his extra healing powers.

Someone screamed outside. Ned jumped to his feet, looking panicked; Peter just tensed as he located his suit, readying himself to put it on and fly through the window if need be. The gentle laugh following the scream, though, convinced him that his help wasn’t needed this time. Still, he got a good look at the street just to be sure.

“So, you want to tell your best friend what you did over that ‘last couple of weeks’”?

“I…” Was there anything he could say to Ned that wouldn’t rub him the wrong way? He’s been so secretive about his life as Spider Man lately. Or, more accurately, about his life as a superhero moonshining as a pathetic teenager in love with the most formidable of them all. He was still struggling for a casual version of ‘no, thanks’ when May saved the day by calling for dinner.

Biting back a sigh of relief, Peter turned away from the window. “Want to stay for Mac & Cheese night, Ned?”

The other shook his head and snatched his backpack from the floor. “Thanks, but no thanks. Your Aunt is pretty scary since she discovered her little boy is Spiderman… ow!” He grabbed the pillow Peter had thrown at him and sent it right back at his face. “You know you can tell me everything, right, Peter?”

“Right. So you can let the whole school know about my private life again…”

“I already told you I was sorry!”

“I know, Iknow.” Peter patted him on the shoulder. Really, he wasn’t angry. He was just… He stared down at the stitchwork on his forearm. Very pretty indeed.

Ned grabbed the doorknob. “I’m serious, Peter. About talking.” And he looked serious, too, with his brow furrowed and his hands palms up, pleading for the trust Peter wished he could offer him. But not this time, not about this. What he felt was too precious, too… breakable.  

He caught himself before he could kiss the stitches, like he’d done countless times last night, and the night before that. Ned was not easy to creep out, but Peter was pretty sure that worshipping his wrist would be too much, even for his friend.

“Thanks, Ned.” Looking apologetic was becoming a specialty of his. “Another time, perhaps.”

*

Mr. Stark had  _not_ been happy.

“I would bend you over my knee and spank you, if I hadn't learnt firsthand how little effect it actually has.”

“No threats to my patient,” Bruce protested. “You sure you don’t want painkillers, Peter?”

“Yes, Mr. Banner, I’m sure.” Peter squirmed on the examination table as he felt a faint blush crept up his neck. Ok, so he hadn’t expected Mr. Stark to be so handsome when anger rode him. There was also the empty threat he’d made, about _spanking_ , and the mere idea of it did very embarrassing things to his body. Peter knew about BDSM (which fifteen-year-old fantasizing about an older man to whom he felt inclined to submit didn’t?), but he’d never imagined that this particular kink would be a turn on. Fortunately for his pride, and the sake of appearing indifferent, the pain in his arm was intense enough for his erection to subside.

Mr. Stark dragged a stool to the examination table and sat down, eyes ablaze with fury. Peter’s stomach did that attempt at roller coasting its content again, but no hastily-formed apology fell from his lips. He compromised: he wouldn’t tell Mr. Stark he was sorry (which he absolutely wasn’t), but he also wouldn’t reach for that hand splayed on the table, so close to his thigh that Peter could almost feel the heat.

“It’s not so bad.”

Banner snorted; Mr. Stark snarled.

“Really, the kid’s all right,” the doctor said from behind one of the numerous computer screens in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter made out long strings of data. “Beside that gash on his forearm, which requires a couple stitches, he’s in better shape than any of us, including _you_ , Stark.”

Peter’s eyes widened in worry. “Are you ok?”

“Of course I am.”

Peter would have punched him if he hadn’t suspected that the wound he could smell (blood and metal, acrid; coconut, sweet; and spices he couldn’t name, but wanted to sprinkle on his bland love life) was in the general area of his chest. There was the arc reactor to consider, too. He swallowed back all the questions he wanted to ask. He knew, he just knew that further attempts at getting answers would only be deflected. Mr. Stark didn’t like it when other people, especially his teammates, worried about him. Which was exactly why Peter had to keep tabs on him, as discreetly as he could.

He tensed slightly as Banner crossed the room with the necessary material to fix his wound.

“Scoot over. You’re scaring him anyway.”

The pleading look Mr. Stark sent Peter’s way shouldn’t have been so cute.

“I’m not scary.”

“He’s not scary,” Peter agreed wholeheartedly. Only his love for the man was, but he wasn’t about to say _that_ out loud. Banner still eyed him with enough suspicion to quicken his heartbeat. Mr. Stark cocked his head to the side, looking appraisingly at him, and Peter wished Jarvis could interrupt the staring contest with annoying business news.

Mr. Stark looked away first, tugging at his goatee. He really looked awful. Like I-should-have-gone-to-bed-three-days-ago kind of awful. “You know what, Brucey? I’ll do it.” He gestured for Banner to hand over the thread and needle.

“What you should do is sleep, Stark. And you’re hardly qualified.”

“You think?” Mr. Stark gestured at his own chest. “Afghanistan is at least two doctorates in medicine. Give me that.”

“If you promise to straight to bed afterwards.”

“Yes, mom, now stop badgering me. You’re keeping the kid waiting.”

Why was it that Banner could get away with ordering Mr. Stark to sleep and he couldn’t even jump in a fight to save the day? Or help the day, at any rate?

Banner retreated to his computer, apparently convinced that his skills were no longer needed. Peter stared hard at his own knees as he lifted his throbbing hand for Mr. Stark to fix. He felt like a doll, the very fragile kind made of porcelain that one wrong move could shatter.

“My face’s over here, kid.”

The warm voice made all the hair on his body stand on end. Peter was grateful for the blood loss, or he might have turned scarlet otherwise. The fact that he was still able to get flustered a little was bad enough as it was. His breath hitched as Mr. Stark gently took hold of his arm. Their knees brushed. Peter had to remind himself that he couldn’t simply sit in Mr. Stark’s lap to make the job easier.

Like it would make anything easier.        

The silence stretched as Mr. Stark worked the needle’s tip into his flesh. Peter bit down his lip not to hiss; no matter how qualified the man was, and Peter really thought he was, the pain was still highly unpleasant, accelerated healing or not.

“So,” Mr. Stark said casually, jerking Peter out of his thoughts. It stung where the needle fit yet more thread between the bloodied edges of the gash. “It looks like you can’t even follow the simplest directives.”

Peter barely suppressed the urge to laugh. _He_ couldn’t follow orders? The correct reply, ‘Pot calling the kettle black’, was really tempting. Last time he checked, Mr. Stark was the prime example of someone who had orders but did whatever he wanted with them, only agreeing to them if it suited him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, who’s talking, right?” Mr. Stark chuckled.

“I didn’t…”

“You’re an open book, kid.” He shook his head, not looking up from his owns hands doing magic on Peter’s arm. So smooth, so sure. Everything about the man was. Peter had to avert his gaze before his desire advertised itself and betrayed him.

Then the words actually registered.

“I’m n-not,” he stuttered. “I’m really not,” he said more firmly.

All he got for his efforts was a laugh. He didn’t mind so much; when Mr. Stark laughed like _that_ , like he truly meant it, his whole face lit up. He looked younger (not that he ever looked _old_ in Peter’s eyes), and less like a man who had gone through hell and came back with the highly priced wisdom derived from pain. Peter was always thrilled to be the reason for that laugh, because as far as he knew, very few people caused it.

But he couldn’t afford to get his hopes up.

“Can you… you know, tell me what was so special about that fight?” he asked between clenched teeth. “I mean, we fought Doombots before, so why couldn’t I come?”

“Because.” Mr. Stark set the needle and remaining thread on the nearest surface (Peter was surprised to see the stitching was already finished). “Because,” he said again, his tone scornful and self-depreciative, “I’m doing you a disservice.”

“A disservice? What disservice?”

“Letting you fight for the team. For me.”

All the air left Peter’s lungs.

“I keep forgetting things like school, and I shouldn’t, you have…” He patted Peter’s hand (the one attached to his intact arm) as he trailed off, smiling that awfully bitter smile Peter always wanted to kiss away.

“I have many things to do with my life, amongst which saving the world, Mr. Stark. I’m not stupid.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“Then stop beating yourself up.” Peter hopped off the examination table. “The classes I miss because I’m on Avenger business, I will still pass with flying colors. Do you think Aunt May would let me do this, any of this, if she thought I couldn’t handle myself?”

Mr. Stark rubbed the heel of a palm over his eyes and sighed. “I know that.” Peter thought he sounded tired. Cradling his arm to his chest (there was no way he was letting anyone put a bandage on that work of art), he let the tip of his fingers brush against a broad shoulder. Maybe he could blame that sudden lack of self-control on the tingling in his arm, which had slowly, insidiously (beautifully) spread to the rest of his body. It wasn’t just lust, though. It was more potent and complex than that, and he had the sinking feeling he would never get rid of it. The yearning would always be there, and so would the pain.

But he wasn’t the only one with issues, and Mr. Stark should be his first concern.

“Are you ok?” Peter hesitated. “I’m sorry I caused you to worry.” When Mr. Stark still didn’t answer and dropped his chin, shoulders hunched as if to bear the fate of the whole world, Peter squeezed his shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. He understood him. He understood why he did what he did, and why he couldn’t stop worrying. The two of them, they were more than human, in both what they’d chosen to be and what they wanted the future to become.

"Mr. Stark? Whatever it is you're thinking, it's gonna be fine."

"You don't even know what I'm thinking," Mr. Stark huffed back. Then he sighed. "Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's ok." The pain in his forearm had faded to a distant buzz. "The team might have lost some of its members, enemies might keep coming at us, but as long as we stick together, work together, _have each other's back_ , it's gonna be all right."

Brown eyes caught his then, blazing with intelligence, wonder and puzzlement. Peter twisted his own arm just so, eager for the pain. It was one thing for Mr. Stark to know that Peter relied on him and liked him, another one entirely to admit to feelings that couldn't, wouldn't be shared. They stared at each other for what felt like a very long time, Peter doing his best to appear unfazed, and Mr. Stark... Peter had no idea what Mr. Stark was thinking. Too many impressions flashed through those eyes; it was like watching five different movies on fast-forward at the same time.

Mr. Stark clutched his chest. Not for the first time, Peter wondered what had really happened in that bunker in Siberia between him and Rogers. All he knew what that the Captain had hurt Mr. Stark. It wasn’t much to go on, but Peter was firmly set on kicking the ass of the team’s next Judas before they ever got their hands on Mr. Stark. He had vowed to protect that man the day he'd realized just how deep his feelings ran for him, and he liked to think he was good at keeping his promises.

*

_"I would bend you over my knee and spank you."_

Peter recalled the words with excruciating clarity. Eyes fluttering shut, he placed those words into the crystal box in his mind, the sole treasure room in the land of his memories. The box contained every gift he’d ever received from Mr. Stark, be it words or touches, promises or lectures.

It was both a curse and a blessing. Some day, perhaps, he would be able to listen to those words embedded in crystal, and not feel like he was staring straight at the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut coming next!


	4. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gala didn’t go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I would manage two updates this week, but I did. Cheers!

The bell couldn't ring soon enough. Peter's hand twitched with the urge to halt the teacher's rambling discourse and ask if they could leave early. He had a gala to attend. An honest-to-god gala, to which he'd been personally invited by none other than Mr. Stark himself, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and the source of so many wet dreams and heartaches he'd stopped counting.

The invitation had been issued very casually by text (there were moments Peter still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Mr. Stark  _texted_  him):  _There's this boring event coming up next Tuesday, you think you could show up so I won’t die of boredom? - Stark_. Peter had done his best not to get too excited about it; Ned was enthusiastic enough for the both of them already. 

Peter ran his thumb over the faint scar on his forearm. Dr. Banner had removed the stitches weeks ago. There hadn't been any attack since, which was only slightly more surprising than that text-invitation. Peter didn't know why Tony thought a sixteen-year-old living a double life would fit in with the high society attending this kind of event, but he was not going to look a gift text in the words.

Gala, gala, gala, he chanted in silence, feet bouncing in quiet excitation. The perfect opportunity to be close to his favorite person in the world, and to see him in one of those sinful suits, which only made Peter more...

The bell interrupted his fantasy before it could truly being. Peter jumped to his feet, waved at Michelle, shot a quick glance to the blackboard (nothing new or important enough to note down, as he'd suspected), and stormed out of the classroom faster than a bullet shot in the vacuum. Which he was, in a sense: a weapon, a soldier. But tonight, he would only be a teenager who got to pine in silence.

Not that being a teenager didn’t suck. Peter hated the limitations of being a teenager.

Going back to the apartment by the roofs would have been faster, but he was supposed to keep a low-profile. See, he could be reasonable if he wanted to.

Very reasonable, even. The proof of that waited for him in front of Aunt May's apartment, head bent over his IPhone. Ned didn't notice him until Peter reached for the keys in his pockets and made them jingle on purpose, but not everyone enjoyed the benefits of enhanced senses.

"Hey, Peter! You're early!"

"The gala's at seven." Peter shook his wrist, drawing Ned's eyes to it. "It's five thirty. I'm not early _._ "

Ned hurried after him in the kitchen. "Well, yeah, but that's still one hour and a half before the its starts, and everyone know that galas don't really start when they say they do, right?"

"Ned. It's a high-class gala, not the one we attended last year in school that served home-made punch. I need time to..."

"Prepare? Ohhhh, I see," he said in a conspiratory voice, elbowing Peter playfully. "You want to impress, I get it."

For one painful second, Peter thought his secret was out. He relaxed slightly when he realized that his friend only meant ‘to impress’ in the general sense, not ‘to impress Mr. Stark long enough for him to notice you like a man, and take you to the nearest bedroom for a more intimate kind of celebration’.

"And what if I am?" he replied dismissively, dropping his backpack on the tiled floor. "Come on, buddy, something tells me you will need food to survive until we get there."

As Peter heated lasagna, they chatted about the exams coming up, and of course,  _again_ , that fight against Doombots that had ended up with him needing stitches. Ned really enjoyed the story of that battle; Peter hated to remember how powerless he had felt as Mr. Stark had plummeted to the ground, so far, almost unreachable…

He managed to move the conversation to safer grounds, namely: the gala.

"You mean to tell me that Mr. Stark invited you to be nice?" Ned summarized, eyes going wide.

Peter caught the plate he’d been drying before it could fall from his hands.

"I said, and I quote, ‘so I won’t die of boredom’. Mr. Stark hates galas." Even knowing it was true, Peter still couldn’t shake the feeling that boredom alone didn’t explain it. Why invite him of all people to make the party more bearable? Was he really Mr. Stark's last choice? Unless it was out of an embarrassing sense of duty? Peter quickly covered the tremors in his hand (and the plate that subsequently dove back into the hot water) by laughing. It sounded genuine enough. "So we will try and enjoy ourselves, yes?"

But Ned was giving him that considering look Peter had come to dislike so much, because it mean the wall he'd erected between his feelings and the world was not as invisible, and invincible, as he'd first thought.

"Spider-Man has not been outed yet, right?"

"Right." Where was Ned getting at? Peter turned entirely towards him, the lone plate in the sink forgotten.

"I mean." Ned shrugged. "Why invite me as your plus one? Not that I'm not flattered and everything, but we're both into girls, so you could have used the occasion to, I don't know," and the tone on which he said those last words clearly inferred the direct opposite, "invite someone else, like Liz?"

Peter winced. Right. There was more than one thing he was keeping from his best friend. He cleared his throat. "Liz’s out of town, remember? Plus, I don't think she really wants to talk to me. Furthermore," he added, lifting a hand to forestall the question he could already sense on Ned’s lips, "Liz is into girls. Seriously, Ned, what are you complaining about? You threw a fit last week because I have so little left for our usual time together.”

"I'm not complaining!"

"Then stop acting like you’re trying to and get ready. You have your tux?"

"Like if I could forget something so important. We’re going to a gala. I’m famous!”

“Oh, shut it.”

*

His tie refused to cooperate. In the back of the taxi, Peter forced his fingers to relax lest he shredded it to pieces. After all, he only owned the one tie.

He’d often imagined that Mr. Stark would be the one to adjust his tie for him. He'd spend plenty of times, both in his own bed and at school, fantasizing about those calloused hands on him as every piece of clothing was arranged to Mr. Stark’s liking. Of course, Mr. Stark would have selected the suit and the tie. The colors would be red and gold, like the suit, or a dark brown, to match the man’s eyes, and mark him as his.  

Peter began tugging on his tie again as he wondered if Mr. Stark was the kind of man to send his lover commando to a public event.

He shook the thought away. There was no point in torturing himself over what he couldn't have. He was supposed to be reasonable, after all.

"Stop that."

Ned looked from over his phone. "Uh? You said something?"

"Just talking to myself." Again.

He gritted his teeth as the taxi took a sharp turn and jumped over a bump in the road. Mr. Stark, of course, had offered to drive him. Peter was sure Mr. Stark’s driving skills far outshone his current driver’s. He was also convinced that sitting in an enclosed space with him for more than five minutes, even with someone else present, was a little too much like pulling the Devil's tail.

The image, of course, didn't help.

"We've arrived, sirs."

Peter fought with Ned over who got to pay, happy for the distraction. He could afford it, after all: even as an unofficial Avenger, he was been paid good money for patrolling the city.

"Come." Once the smile was on, it was easy to fool himself into pretending it was euphoria, and not dread and tension, spreading through his chest. "Let's rock that gala."

*

The gala was everything he'd expected. Classic music played live by a professional orchestra, beautiful women in long evening dresses swirling gracefully with men clad in tailored suits that might or might not have cost a year's tuition at MIT, and a buffet of gargantuan proportions that offered twenty varieties of caviar, but not a single bowl of pretzels.

Peter walked around the high-ceiled room with Ned in two, impressed in spite of himself. Much to his embarrassment, tens of judging gazes surveyed him, putting a tag price on his clothes. Some of the guests smirked, and one even asked Peter if he needed directions to the nearest exit.

Peter kept his back straight and his smile in place. Knowing he would mingle with the high-end part of the society tonight and actually doing it was light-years apart. He did his best not to stutter (and not to swear when he did) and was pretty confident in his ability to see the evening through when Ned caught his elbow by the buffet table. Unsurprisingly, his friend hadn't budged from there since their arrival twenty minutes ago.

"You should try those." Ned fit a little cake whole in his mouth while he handed another one to Peter. "Ey rr lishoos."

Peter took a bit; of course, it was excellent. Checking his watch, he wondered where Mr. Stark was. Peter was supposed to make the night easier for him as live entertainment of some kind (he should really stop thinking about the X-rated version of live entertainment), but he could hardly accomplish that if the man didn't show up.

"Good evening."

A red-haired woman in a sublime red dress that was as form-hugging as it was thin glided to him in vertiginous high-heels. The color contrast should have been awful, but on her the deep red of silk just complimented her long, snake-like curls.

She looked a bit like Ms. Potts, both in looks and the way she smiled, so Peter extended his hand in turn.

"Uh... Hi, how are you?" Really smooth, he thought. Really smooth, Peter.

Not sure what to do when the woman didn't shake his hand, he struggled for a moment before taking the quiet it and pressing his lips to the perfectly manicured hand, like they did in the Bond’s movies. The gesture earned him a delighted laugh. Peter’s smile turned more genuine, and a little puzzled as well. Was he imagining things or had he just been chosen as the next prey on that woman’s long list of conquests for the nights? He wasn't sure he minded the attention. It wouldn’t get far, because one, he wasn’t into women, and two, he had another function to attend to.

Which brought him back first circle to _where was Mr. Stark?_

Another twenty minutes later, and Peter was engaged in a passionate debate with the woman (they had yet to exchange names). As it turned out, she was not merely pretty, but also stunningly brilliant, which showed more and more as they discussed chemistry. Peter was just starting to be confident that the seduction game between them would not go further than the most basic elements when she caught his hand and led him to the dancefloor.

It was already filling with couples. A dozen crystal candelabras hung high over their heads, gleaming brighter as a valse started.

The woman winked. Peter let her place his hand on her own body.

"Do you mind?" she asked, lacing their fingers together.

Peter was confused. "To dance?"

"No, to be led."

That seductive purr would have shot straight to any man’s groin and rendered him speechless, ablaze with need; the woman  _was_  stunning, with a brilliant mind to boot, and Peter was not entirely gay, even if he had a clear preference. With the kind of libido that kept him awake at night to jerk out to fantasies of Mr. Stark kissing and touching him, calling him a  _good boy, such a good boy for me_ , he ought to be making a fool of himself trying to get into the woman's panties.

He might have, if his attraction to Mr. Stark had been purely sexual in nature, and a fleeting thing that time could discourage.

He wondered if he would ever forget his crush long enough for it to feel less like a curse, and more like a blessing.

And that was when Mr. Stark entered the room.

Peter missed a step and would have ended up kissing the floor if not for the prompt reaction of his dancing partner. Who was leading him. Right. Peter's smile was hesitant as he thanked her, and made it clear that no, he didn't mind being led at all.

The music was suave and slow, and the woman's body a magnetic heat as it undulated against his. Peter couldn't have ignored its appeal more easily.

He turned his attention back to Mr. Stark, taking advantage of the man's searching eyes to study him and _covet_. Like usual, he appeared to have come straight out of a fashion magazine, this time with a black and dark red tux that emphasized every muscle and sharp curve of his body. Knowing he wasn’t yet that far into Pathetic Land, Peter forced his eyes upwards and focused on his face instead. Of course, it created a whole new set of problems, mainly for his heart, which was busy digging its way out of his chest.

His breath caught as those brown eyes settled on him, alight with amusement and relief.

"Hey, kid!"

It was unfair how fast Mr. Stark got the crowd to part for him. Peter tried to wave back, and get him to come closer, to ask if he was ok, because Mr. Stark wouldn't be late if he had Peter waited for him, because he was a good man, even if he was not  _his_  good man, but every word in his vocabulary go stuck in his throat.

Peter got no word out, and the room started to spin a little when Mr. Stark got closer. Still, a good ten meters remained between them for a while, considering that most guests seemed to have noticed the man's presence and had swarmed around him to talk and charm. Peter felt thoroughly dizzy under the watchful glance directed his way. It was obvious in the man's posture that he tried to go to him, and that the flock of pretty birds had better get lost. Still, he talked and charmed back with ease, surveying Peter with those dark eyes, smiling with them, and asking questions Peter felt underequipped to contemplate.

That man really had a way with his eyes, as if he could see through things and people, and Peter wanted him to see him, to see _through_ him, past that wall of shame and indecision (he’d been so sure before, but every day a stone tumbled down the masks and polite smiles). If only he was older, less innocent in Mr. Stark’s eyes, perhaps the man would want to make the dreams come true, and pull Peter into his lap, and brand his mouth with his own, and, and…

Eventually, it occurred to him that Mr. Stark might be looking at his dancing partner, not him. After all, she was the prettiest creature in the room after the main guest.

"You're quite good at this," the woman complimented him, jerking him from his depressing thoughts.

Peter dipped his head in a bow. "Thank you."

He spun around, guided by his partner, and found himself pressed to a pair of firm breasts. A second later, he faced Mr. Stark again.

The man had flicked open the first button of his jacket and was still talking, still watching them,  _her_. It was that considering look again, the one he usually reserved for his most interesting projects down in the lab. Peter couldn't help the flush warming up his cheeks, coloring his throat. Even knowing that Mr. Stark's focus was likely on the long-legged goddess on his arm, that intensity touched him deeply. His knees grew weak, but the woman was strong and steady, and they danced on and on and on until Peter thought he would collapse so fast the room was spinning around him. His skin felt too tight, and his heart pounded like a war gong. Sweat run down his spine like a parody of the living ghost he invited at night. His palms were sweaty, too, on the woman’s body. He didn't want to touch that her. Why was his mind so uncooperative, so weak? He knew nothing would happen to make the ache go away, so why hold on and suffer?

He blinked back tears of frustration. He'd been doing so well lately ( _such a good boy, Peter_  - no, he wasn't thinking that, not again, not now anyway). Perhaps he needed more action, now that the Avengers’ typical enemies had decided to take a vacation. An excuse to sublimate away all that want and that love that ate at him.

He could have kissed every single member of the orchestra when the song ended. With an impatient huff, he took a step back and let go of the woman’s hand. A chemist, right in here element. He  felt completely clumsy in comparison.

" I have to go."

"Of course."

Still feeling Mr. Stark's eyes on him (weren't they on the woman?), Peter elbowed his way through the crowd of dancing couples until he reached the buffet. Those eyes were still watching him from the past straight into the present of his undoing, with his own hunger refracted in their centers.

His phone bleeped with a text.

_Sorry I'm so busy. But at least it looks like you're having fun :P Stark_

Peter did his best not to grin like an idiot. It took him three tries to get the letters right.

 _Thanks for the invite. Do have fun, too. And try the cupcakes. PP._  A light tone, humor; this was how friends interacted. This was what he should do. This was right.

Then why did it feel so wrong? His stomach heaved. With trembling fingers, he picked an artful cupcake straight from Ned's hand and stuffed his mouth full.

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Yours looked tastier. Pick another one.”

Ned didn't look appeased by the endless selection on the table.

"Are you ok, Peter? You look sort of... flustered.  _Ah."_  He winked at him. "Was dancing with  _that_  work of art so overwhelming?"

"You should try dancing sometimes."

"Like a beautiful woman would ask me to." Ned gobbled another cupcake. He, at least, was enjoying himself.

Realizing that eating was the last thing he should be doing on a queasy stomach, Peter said something vague about going to the bathroom and left the hall. Some time alone usually helped sooth the ache. He would splash water on his face and meditate a little. Everything would be fine.

He was just turning the corner into a deserted corridor when he saw the red-haired chemist again. Backed up against the wall, one leg wrapped up around a man's waist. The red dress rode up to her thigh. The man's hand shoved the silk the rest of the way up before moving inwards, impatient and purposeful. His pants, Peter could see, were unzipped, showing a hint of hard...

 _No_.

Peter stumbled back with shock. Of every guest that this woman could have chosen to pursue, of every guest that Mr. Stark could have decided to divest of their clothing, it had to be each other.

Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't it be  _him_?

The egoist voice he'd muzzled for so long roared in rage, wiping out every rational thought. He had to get out of here. Had to leave, had to _breathe_ , but every lungful hurt, with how vivid that picture of treason (it was no treason, no treason!) still burnt bright beneath his wet lids.

He found an empty room and locked himself in. In matter of seconds, he’d pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees. He was so angry, at himself, at that woman (but not at Mr. Stark, couldn’t be angry at _him_ ), and yet he was throbbing with need, as it anger only fueled his leashed desire. He began to stroke himself fast and hard, his mind already reeling with what he’d not quite seen, and couldn’t unsee.

Mr. Stark, feasting on that woman’s neck, fingers pumping between her legs.

His suit pants unzipped, showing a hint of hardness, feeding his own imagination for weeks to come.

Temptation. A curse that cut deep within him, and tore down the rest of his wall.

He cried but he didn’t care. He’d tried to be good, to ignore the need, but it would not go away. He sobbed as he squeezed the base of his cock with unnecessary strength, picturing stronger hands on him. Pleasure flooded him like it always did with thoughts of brown eyes and calloused hands, and Peter stifled a moan, banging his head back against the door hard enough to see stars. _Crack._ Traitor, he thought, picking up speed, rubbing his slit on every stroke. His body was the most cruel of all.

His hole spasmed with the need to be filled, and more fantasies surged forth, of a body holding his own, a finger preparing him, Mr. Stark, at last, taking care of him. Precome leaked against his shirt. He felt so warm, so _ready_ , for all that he couldn’t have. He tried hard not to whimper his name, but the more he kept it in, the more it wanted out.

“Mister… S-Stark…”

His phone rang. Swearing between moans, Peter fumbled with one hand in his pocket. The caller ID read _Stark_.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. It’d been less than five minutes; were they already done? Not quite able to simply let go of his cock so close to completion, he wedged the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and ear.

“Yes?” He sounded out of breath. Part of him hoped Mr. Stark would notice, and wonder why.  

“Peter, where are you?”

“I’m…” It was a pretty good question, that didn’t seem to matter in the end.

“Something’s just happened. Get your ass back to the reception, we have to leave.”

Was Mr. Stark angry or worried? Peter couldn’t tell, and he was still hard, but worry gnawed at him.

“What is…”

“Just come,” Mr. Stark said, clearly worried this time. “We might need your help.”

Peter only heard ‘I’, ‘need’ and ‘you’. His cock softened in his hand as the rational part of his brain overrode all those baser instincts let loose.

“I’m on my way.”

Mr. Stark had already hung up. Peter quickly put himself back into his trousers and left what turned out to be a small living room. Of course he would answer the call, every call made by this man. He would take anything he could get, even if it was only a pat on the shoulder and a cheerful thank you. Or a disguised plea for help.

He really hoped he would get to kick some asses tonight.


	5. Shades of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Rogers is back, and Peter feels very protective… and less in control than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long, but I have so many fics going on, and books that will get published soon, and another job on the side... Hope you enjoy!

 

He was a mess on the ride back to the headquarters. He felt stretched to the breaking point, too warm and too cold and unable to think straight. The lingering lust and anger he'd failed to push back at the gala held his reason hostage as they expanded beneath his temples in a formidable headache.

Feeling torn was nothing new, but the absence of will to keep the sensation locked away was. He couldn’t wait for the blessed day his love would stop hurting. Earlier, he’d hoped reaching majority would help, but he was too close to it, in a sense, to believe the lie now.

He pressed his brow to the window, but there was nothing interesting outside; only rows upon rows of towers and apartment blocks. Mr. Stark had ushered him in one of his cars without a word of explanation, patting his shoulder before heading to another car himself, a sport model that he would drive himself, it seemed.

Peter threw his head back against the cushioned seat, hands limp in his lap. It was for the best that they rode separately. The mystery of whatever forced them to leave early drove him a bit mad, but in the deeper pool of craziness he'd hollowed out for himself loving the most inaccessible man in the world, it was just another drop. Another itch he couldn’t scratch.

He spent the first ten minutes answering Ned's texts. No, he hadn’t been explained anything yet, nor as he sick (not in that sense anyway). He'd been called away on Avengers business, that was all he knew, or rather hoped. Ned concluded the exchange with a cupcake emoji.

Peter then proceeded to get some answers.

 _What is it?_ _PP._ Three words, simple. Nothing superfluous, only business, like it should be. He exhaled slowly as he waited for Mr. Stark to reply... before remembering that the other was driving. Tony Stark might own a patent to driveless technology, he would never miss an opportunity to take the wheel of one of his luxurious sport cars.

When his phone bleeped, Peter almost had a heart attack.

_Avengers business._

"At least I've got that right," Peter mused aloud, scrolling down the screen to read the rest.

_Really didn't expect him to come back so soon, if at all._

Peter's heart lurched painfully. There was only one person Mr. Stark could be referring to.

_You mean Captain Rogers._

_That would be the one, kid._

While distracted by his anger at the use of that nickname, Peter still had enough brainpower left to wish he could see Mr. Stark now, and the expression that went with those words. To touch his shoulder in silent compassion, because his own ignorance of the events in Siberia was not entirely complete; he could sense an open wound festering, and he wanted to heal it, to kiss...

He wanted way too many things.

 _We will deal with him_ , he texted after a few minutes of switching back and forth between hot rage and cold disdain. He felt almost calm again. Almost.

 _ETA 3 min_ , was the answer he received.

*

Steve Rogers, alias Captain America, stood in front of the Avengers headquarters. The guilt, if not the cause for it, was blatantly obvious in the way he held himself, broad shoulders slightly hunched forwards, chin dipping. He was wearing a simple white shirt and light blue jeans ,and there was a hole in one of his shoes, the one he kept using the tip to dig in the pavement (his grave, Peter wished). Through the deep pockets where he'd tucked his hands, Peter could spy splotches of pale skin. Part of him wondered why Captain Rogers wasn't showing his hands, as was the custom when you showed up on a former friend's doorstep for an apology. Unless his purpose for being here was not of the peaceful variety, of course.

The other part of him tensed like a hot blade plunged in cold water. Mr. Stark turned his back to the sport car (this suit's jacket really was sinful, hugging every curve, showing every muscle, a frame for perfection). He, too, had his hands in his pockets, but unlike Rogers, his stance was a proud one, his shoulders square and chin held high in defiance. He didn't hesitate once he was out in the open, striding towards his visitor, Widow and Barton close on his heels, freshly returned from wherever-it-was-they-had-been-training.

Peter's car was last to arrive, so he was last to join the group. Spotting Mr. Stark taking the lead, he took off at a sprint to join him, entirely oblivious to Barton’s incredulous expression and Widow’s slightly darker expression.

“Mr. Stark, wait!”

The man, however, wasn’t listening to him. Peter swore under his breath and almost threw webbing at him, to keep him from moving too close to Rogers (did he really have to stand a mere meter away?) In the end, though, he decided against making a scene and merely came to a full stop just behind Mr. Stark. The warning to step back in the brown eyes suddenly turned his way didn’t come close to make him change his mind., even if the hint of red around his mouth reminded him that Mr. Stark was not his, neither to defend or kiss.

But they were friends. And friends protected each other.

"You should call your suit," he whispered.

Mr. Stark glowered.

"And you should step back."

"What's the purpose of bringing me along, if I can't help?"

"I don't mean to interrupt you, guys,” drawled Barton, “but I think we should deal with _that_ first.”

Mr. Stark's scolding expression vanished, replaced by a total lack of feeling or purpose that could only mean one thing.

Rogers must realize it as well, because he seemed to shrink where he stood.

"Barton, Romanov, Stark… and you’re Parker, right?”

Tony held one arm to the side, blocking the Captain’s view of Peter’s face, or maybe preventing him from stepping forwards, and endangering himself in the process. The cold dread in Peter’s belly vanished, replaced by a warmth he felt so grateful for he had to hug himself to feel more of it.

"Rogers.” Mr. Stark sounded bored. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Let me guess," he added, his hand raised to forestall the oncoming interruption. "Is your lover in need of technical assistance? Perhaps to unscrew himself from an uncomfortable situation?"

"Not helping," someone muttered. Peter thought it might have been Widow.

Rogers, however, merely pursed his lips. "We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Perhaps, but…”

"Why don't we take that inside?" Widow suggested in clipped tones, gesturing towards the door.

Mr. Stark nodded. Just before scanning his hand he shot Rogers a last venomous glance.

"Can't say it's nice to see a man who tried to kill me back on my doorstep. Do come in, please."

The last bit was dripping with sarcasm, but Peter only heard the first part. Only the foreboding, impossible words that he knew could only be the truth.

_A man who tried to kill me._

Goosebumps broke all over his skin.

Well, he thought, following suit after Barton and Widow, eyes never leaving the man who'd tried to kill the one he loved. Now he knew the truth, and he would make sure Steven Rogers, one of his former childhood hero s turned enemy, never had another shot at hurting what he considered _his_ , in the deepest corner of his heart.

*

Peter was still trying to digest this explosive bit of information as he paced back and forth in front of the double doors leading to Mr. Stark's private quarters. He'd requested, no, ordered, to come along with him. Mr. Stark, perhaps too tired to argue, had just told Friday to upgrade Peter's credentials for one hour. He probably wished to avoid Peter pestering him later on, on the hope that a little time in the penthouse would distract the _kid_ long enough for him to calm down.

Peter had forgotten how to calm down. He'd locked the blazing fury he could feel searing through his every nerve ending in a neighboring cell to the one harboring warmer, tender feelings. After all, he was pretty sure none of the Avengers would let him jump at Captain America's throat _just_ to avenge Mr. Stark. Not that he got how they all acted that there was nothing wrong with welcoming an almost-murderer in their midst.

His nails dug bloody crescents into his palms. Peter let out a rough exhale. He should let Mr. Stark alone, and wait by the elevator. Sure, the quarters were huge, at least from what he'd seen a few minutes ago, but...

A chill crept up his spine as a dreadful hypotheses took form in his spinning mind. Mr. Stark’s private quarters were huge. More than one door, or secret passage, must lead to the master bedroom. What if Rogers' return and guilty-ridden expression were merely a ruse to get to Iron Man and finish what he'd started in Siberia? Peter could have punched himself for being so naïve. For deciding that Mr. Stark could protect himself. Obviously, Mr. Stark would protest that Peter was the one in dire need of protection, but Mr. Stark was alone now, or perhaps not, Peter could picture only too easily those big hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him, and Mr. Stark blue face with his mouth agape, his body limp against the wall. There would be no more sneering, no more flirty, dirty promises whispered to a red-haired chemist, no more hand stroking between trembling legs, no more looks directed his way, looks he didn't always know how to decipher, looks that filled his nights with alternate realities and split his days into hard moments and harder segments, and he couldn't let that fade into nothingness, couldn't think past, couldn't think...

He burst into Mr. Stark's quarters.

"Mr. Stark!"

The door to a small but lavish living room clicked shut behind him. Peter searched every corner for a threat, and found none.

"Mr. Stark," he repeated, quietly this time. He'd already battled against Captain America, and didn't relish the prospect of getting thrown across the room and through a couple walls again, but if that was what it took to ensure Mr. Stark’s safety... "Mr. Stark?" He felt like he'd spend the whole evening wondering where Mr. Stark was.

Tiptoeing to the door on his left, he wrapped trembling fingers around the doorknob and slowly turned it to the right. It didn't occur to him to check with Friday if everything was all right on the other side; if it wasn't, the AI would have told him. But then what was he still doing here? It was only a precaution, he told himself. He was here to _prevent_ anything bad from happening.

Holding his breath, he gently nudged the door open...

To the master bedroom.

Never in his life had Peter set foot into so luxurious a room. The king-sized bed (or rather double-king) occupied a mere sixth of the room, and yet it was tall, impossibly large and overall impressive, with its tens of soft-looking cushions, its dark sheets and plush red blankets. The tip of one sheet trailed on the floor at the foot of the bed, as if an invitation to climb in and rest.

Or do other things.

Peter averted his gaze, taking in the rest of the room: metallic designer furniture, and everything technology had to offer to the one man who developed it faster than the world could understand it. He checked in the walk-in closet, eyes widening at the sheer size of it, and the hundreds of pieces of clothing it contained, but no, Mr. Stark was not there either, and Rogers wasn’t hiding between a suit.

Oh…

When he would fly back to the apartment a little before dawn, loins on fire and heart hammering, he would wonder at his poor reaction time. Much, much later, as he lay curled up in his bed, he would fall prey to shame.

For watching.

For staying.

For enjoying every second of it… and robbing a man he respected, loved, of his intimacy, without that man's knowledge.

Later, he would try to convince himself that his eavesdropping, no, his _voyeurism,_ had been born out of a desire to protect, but he was becoming better at lying to himself.

He would feel so much shame. But now, as he retreated quickly to the living room, letting the door ajar, he only felt impatience, and a pang of guilt, at his body’s forceful desire to stay rooted to the spot. Mr. Stark was in no danger.

He was just coming out of a shower.

Swirls of hot air emerged from what could only be the adjoining bathroom. He should leave, he thought, at least close the door. But he didn’t. Not even when he heard Mr. Stark talking into his phone, obviously unthreatened by Rogers. Not even when it became clear that the call was all business; that much was obvious from the annoyance in Mr. Stark's tone, and the casual way in which he toweled himself.

Peter didn't leave. His eyes belonged to the sight in front of him, to the man who’d just tossed the towel aside, standing stark (ah!) naked in his domain. Droplets of water ran down his sides and chest, drawing straight lines over the taut muscles of his abdomen, trickling down in trails of caresses, gathering at the apex of his thick thighs, where trimmed dark hair framed... Without meaning to, Peter let out a moan. His erection throbbed in his pants. He could hear his ragged breathing, tried to bring it back under control, but Mr. Stark had just turned his back to him, gifting him with the sight of twin buttocks, firm and round and oh, Peter’s hand was so crisped on that doorknob it was a wonder it was still intact. He didn't need a mirror to know his pupils were completely blown. Didn’t need a speech from his aunt, or anybody else, to know that what he was doing was ten shades of wrong.

He wanted to touch himself.

He didn’t.

Mr. Stark bent to retrieve something in a drawer, and Peter tasted blood in his mouth. He had leave _now_. He couldn’t claim he loved that man if he violated his intimacy and enjoyed it.

He was so damn confused. So damn weak.

On his way down to the common floor, he tried to regain his composure. He knew it had failed as soon as he bumped into Barton on the way to the living room, where Barton, Widow, _Rogers_ and Ms. Potts were gathered in tense silence.

"Hey, kid, you ok?”

Mr. Stark, for all the tremendous rage that radiated from his, was all concern as he turned towards Peter and cocked his head to the side.

“Yeah.” No, no, no… Peter swallowed hard, tried to smile. He couldn't look Mr. Stark in the eye. Searching for a distraction, he glared at the Captain, who up till now had apparently been studying him like he was an exotic variety of something he used to know very well. He refused to look down, not until Rogers did. Not until Mr. Stark walked away from the doorway, away from him, to direct all his formidable attention towards Rogers. 

The warmth in Peter's chest was gone. 


	6. The Voice in My Ear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America (alias Rogers, alias the enemy) has a very good reason to be back, and Peter should really listen when he’s told to do something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friendly reminder: lynched/dead authors can't write.
> 
> On an unrelated note: I'm trying to organize a Spideriron Mini Big-Bang. If you're interested, here's where you can find more info:[my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sparcina).

S _o what’s happening with the other As? Are we under attack? Should I call May?_

That was Ned fishing for news. Peter typed a quick ‘all fine, talk later’ before silencing his phone and shoving it back into his pants’ pocket. The hasty text was all he could afford at the moment. His best friend would have to wait. Shame, too, would have to be dealt with later. Right now, Peter was meant to be a supportive presence, and a protector, if necessary. He still couldn't believe that Rogers had tried to kill Mr. Stark, but according to Ms. Potts (and a conversation Peter shouldn't have overheard), Mr. Stark had known more than his fair share of betrayal over the years.

And now Peter had betrayed him, too. Worried about the man to the point of obsession, he'd entered his private quarters to make sure Rogers hadn't used Mr. Stark’s sudden retreat to the penthouse to end what he’d started... only to walk in on his wet-dream freshly out of the shower, his well-toned body nothing short of magnificent.

Peter couldn't get that picture out of his mind. Mr. Stark was so much more than a handsome body, of course, he was  _the one_ , there was no denying it now, but Peter was only sixteen, with teenage hormones on override, and his extra senses blowing lust out of proportions. He wanted, he  _loved_ the man now dressed in dark grey slacks and a simple black washed-out shirt. There was nothing simple, however, about the array of emotions lurking in those brown eyes. If Peter could reassure him, he would. And if...

Stop, he told himself, ordering his hands to stop fidgeting, because Widow would know something was wrong with him; probably knew already, from the way her eyes narrowed at him. Peter gulped. Focus, he thought. Prioritize. He threw his shoulders back to gain an extra inch; not that he could ever intimidate someone like Rogers with size or bulk, but the guilt and helplessness were eating at him. He had to do _something_ before Rogers leaped from his seat and tackled Mr. Stark down.

The decision was taken for him as the door burst open, admitting a weary-looking Dr. Banner. Everyone startled except Widow, whose expression of boredom fooled nobody (in that room anyway); she was listening to every word and watching every minute shift in everyone’s expression.

Dr. Banner dropped a heavy backpack to the ground and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sorry I'm late, I had an-” His face darkened as he took in the members of this impromptu gathering. “Oh, hell, you could have told me, Tony."

"And miss the pleasure of seeing regret  _again_ on his face? I think not. Plus, you have enough control not to transform… albeit I wouldn’t mind a show of strength.”

Mr. Stark must be impervious to disapproving glares, because both Dr. Banner's and Ms. Potts' were ignored. With an unpleasant smirk that frightened Peter a bit (and aroused him a lot more), he drained the cup of coffee that DUM-E, oblivious to the tension sizzling in the living room and cheerful as ever, handed out to him.

Peter only needed a discreet sniff to know that the coffee was laced with alcohol, but he said nothing. He, too, would probably need a liquid pat on the back to deal with an ex-friend who'd tried to dig him an early grave.

“Tony-”

“That will be ‘Stark’ for you, Capsicle.”

Rogers' look of unease didn't falter; if anything, he appeared increasingly more troubled. Guilty, troubled and... pleading? Peter could hardly what he was seeing. Baron and Ms. Potts also exchanged perplexed looks.

It was Widow who broke the silence.

"What's wrong, Rogers?"

"Yes, how about you tell us why you bothered coming back?" Mr. Stark chimed in, handing his empty mug to Dr. Banner, who just rolled his eyes before placing it on a table. 

"It's about..." There was naked pain on Rogers' face. He rearranged those long legs of his, looking at everyone and no one. He seemed lost in the past. "Bucky's dead."

In the tense silence that fell on the room, Widow beckoned at Peter. At first, he hesitated, now wanting to let Mr. Stark unprotected, but the knowledge that Widow wouldn't move a soldier if he was needed elsewhere convinced him to hop on one arm of the sofa… the arm closest to her, and to Rogers.

Why did it matter if Barnes, Rogers’ former best friend, was alive or dead? He'd sided with Rogers on the Accords and probably fought Stark when Peter was busy defending his own life. Surely it didn't matter to Mr. Stark if one of his enemies was out of the picture? Besides, Peter might hate Rogers for what he did to Mr. Stark, but he didn't think the man completely stupid; Rogers would not just come back here for scraps of sympathy.

So what was he doing here? What was he hoping to accomplish?

Mr. Stark didn't share his confusion and began tapping one foot, eyes blazing with fury. The silence was stretching uncomfortably.  

"And why would you think I care whether your lover lives or dies, Rogers?”

Peter was aware that his role as an Avenger (official or not) was to protect people and keep them from hurting each other. Usually, he followed that rule without problem, but as Mr. Stark and Rogers rushed towards each other, their intentions crystal-clear, Peter really wished he could get in between them. To protect the one man he loved. To knock Rogers off his feet, and land a few mean kicks and punches. That wouldn't be very peaceful, sure, but Mr. Stark wanted Rogers to suffer, so Peter wanted it, too.

"Don't."

With his faster-than-human reflexes, he was already half-standing when Rogers jumped out of his seat and Mr. Stark lunged at his enemy. Annoyed, Peter glanced down at Widow's hand on his thigh. She wasn't even looking at him as she spoke, but her tone brooked no argument. "Stay here. It's already taken care of, see?"

She was right: Dr. Banner had recovered quickly enough from his shock and wound both arms around Mr. Stark' waist, whereas Barton had retrieved his bow from one of his hundred secret stashes and fitted a stun arrow to it. His intervention, however, was no more necessary than Peter’s; as soon as Dr. Banner backed Mr. Stark into a corner to talk some sense into him, Rogers backed away, hands held up in peace.

“I’m sorry.”

Peter wasn't fooled by the quiet tone; Rogers looked every inch as furious as Mr. Stark. He was surprised at his self-control, and had to wonder at the relationship between Bucky and him. The (very) temporary spark of sympathy he experienced was nevertheless crushed in record time. Rogers was the enemy. Peter was on Tony’s side, always. He was _his_.

“Let me go,” muttered Mr. Stark, shooing Dr. Banner’s away. “I’m not a fucking animal, not like him anyway.” He glared daggers at Rogers. He was clearly unhappy, but whatever Dr. Banner had told him must have helped, because he resumed his previous position and jerked his chin at Rogers. Peter slowly sat down, mostly to have Widow remove her hand.

Mr. Stark started pacing. He must be impervious to worried glances too, because he didn’t seem to notice just how much tenser everybody (except Widow, again) had become in the last minute.

"You have exactly two minutes to tell us why you are here, and ten seconds to convince me to give you those two minutes.

Rogers started to talk.

He talked fast, hurried into the meat of his story by Mr. Stark's ultimatum. He reminded them of the frozen super soldiers and the team of scientist that was working on a cure for their brainwashing, and when Mr. Stark threatened to show him the way out, spoke of their escape. “How could that bunch escape?” Barton grunted. "I thought they were dead anyway!"

“I don’t know.” Rogers threw his hands in the air, helplessness written all over his face. “Buc… _He_ didn’t think they could be brought to life either. We-”

“Back to the point!” Mr. Stark snapped.

Peter could see through the anger; he could _taste_ the pain on his tongue. What wouldn’t he have given to be able to wipe away the hurt? The distance between them, a mere few inches, was unbearable. His nails sank in his palms as he listened to the rest of the tale.

 _Someone_ (Rogers claimed he didn't know who) had engineered the super soldiers back to life and roused Barnes from his cryogenic sleep. Their first target, Rogers added, had been himself. No, he didn't know why; yes, he believed the other Avengers were next. Still brainwashed but partly himself thanks to the time he'd spent reacquainting himself with his childhood friend, Barnes had been the only one who'd defended Rogers. And now he was dead.

“I didn’t come to ask for help,” Rogers said, trying to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes. “I came here to offer mine.”

“Leave. All of you.” When Rogers made a gesture to stand, Mr. Stark lifted a hand. “Except you.”

Dr. Banner protested a little, but it was Peter who made the more noise.

He didn’t think before getting to his feet, didn’t think before he voiced the thought that ran in a loop. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears as he took that final step that would bring him between Rogers and Mr. Stark.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Barton looked surprised, and so did Ms. Potts. Dr. Banner showed concern, and Widow looked like Widow always did, which didn’t mean anything.

Rogers and Mr. Stark turned to him, but only the latter spoke up.

“It’s better if you leave.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Stark, I don’t think it is.”

Peter could sense how everybody’s attention had shifted to him and fought the urge to squirm. He hadn’t mean to be _that_ obvious, and yet he didn’t have another choice. Just like he wasn’t going to obey Mr. Stark when told to stay back when everybody else was fighting, he wouldn’t let the man alone with an enemy.

Their eyes met. Peter flinched, but held his ground. He understood what Mr. Stark was going through; that he wished to prove to everyone, himself included, that he didn’t fear the man who’d almost killed him. However, he wasn’t wearing his suit, was making himself vulnerable, and that, Peter couldn’t tolerate.

He hadn’t planned to expose himself, but the urge to protect ran too deep within him. He _had_ to do something.

Mr. Stark must see some of that resolve, because he gestured towards the door and spoke in a harsher tone. The concern from before was back, but so brief Peter thought he might as well have imagined it.

“I don’t care what you think right now, kid. You’re leaving with the others.”

“Your pride is not worth your life!” Peter shouted.

There was but an inch between them now. Mr. Stark was so warm... and his words so cold.

“Get. Out.”

“But-”

Peter would have stood his ground, but a hand fell on his shoulder and pulled him towards the door.

“Thank you, Brucey.” And Mr. Stark turned his attention back to Rogers.

“Come on, Peter, let’s go.”

“But-”

“This is Tony’s home,” Dr Banner insisted, bodily dragging him out of the room. Damn, but that man  _was_ strong. “Friday won’t let anything happen to him, you know that.”

Peter really wished he did.

*

It was three in the morning, and Peter still wasn’t sleeping. As a matter of fact, he’d been watching the ceiling of his bedroom for the past three hours. He felt restless. Stupid, too. And guilty. The mix made it hard to breathe, and even harder to think.

Fuck, he’d made such a fool on himself, on so many levels.

He should have left when he saw Mr. Stark was all right (and naked).

Should have left along with the rest of the team at Mr. Stark’s request.

Should have…

He rolled on his belly and groaned in his pillow. He was _so_ ashamed. Of course the Avengers wouldn’t let Mr. Stark alone with Rogers if they thought him in danger. They were all his friends, and Peter was the worst of them. He worried like a mother-hen and spied on him like a voyeur. Yes, _voyeur_. He might hate the word, but that was what he was when it came to Mr. Stark.

Guilt refused to let go of him. He remembered Mr. Stark’s glare vividly. Could imagine that same glare directed at him for many, many reasons.

 _I would bend you over my knee and spank you_.

Of course the memory would taunt him now. Peter moaned in his pillow, shame now mingled with arousal. Mr. Stark would always be handsome in his eyes, and with anger riding him… Peter licked his lips, imagined Mr. Stark’s husky voice as he told him to remove his pants and called him a _bad boy_.

Imagined Mr. Stark’s calloused hand raising goosebumps on his bare behind.

Imagined Mr. Stark’s hard cock pressing into his side, and its familiarity borne of dreams. _Smack_. Peter’s hips jerked. Mr. Stark would hold back, but not too much. He would alternate slaps with caresses, and Peter wouldn’t mind the pain, he would _rut_ in Mr. Stark’s lap, pleading for more, wishing for forgiveness. If only Mr. Stark would allow him to get him off, Peter could show him just how much he meant it, and just how much Mr. Stark meant for _him_ …

A growl built in Peter’s chest. Sweat trickled down his shoulder blades. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t banish the fantasy forming in his mind; not that he tried very hard. Still, he wouldn’t give his body the relief it desperately wanted.

*

After a sleepless night of self-flagellation over what he'd done in the penthouse, Peter dragged his feet to the kitchen. His stomach was growling, but he didn’t listen to the hunger, just as he’d dismissed (albeit with much more difficulty) that _other_ kind of hunger last night. Eventually, it passed. One coffee later, it was completely forgotten. He replied to his phone when May called, and lied through his teeth about yesterday’s night. Her enthusiasm only made him feel worse, but he wouldn’t burden her with his own… depravity, or something. He blamed his _three_ falls on the way to school on his lack of sleep.

He’d never been so happy to see Ned. They spent the first period (maths; Peter could teach that class) texting each other, and the midday meal together at the cafeteria with Michelle. They spoke of trivial things, and Peter found himself laughing as Michelle invented a ridiculous story for the students sitting around them. The guilt didn’t disappear, but it eased a bit. He allowed himself one call to the Avengers headquarters, to make sure Mr. Stark was all right.

He was. And apparently, the Captain had left for an errand.

Peter was just waving his hand at Ned in the parking lot after the last class of the day when he learnt what his errand was.

Rogers stood with his back to the fence, hands in his pockets. He must not have gotten much sleep either.

Peter adjusted the straps of his school bag, trying for casual. His first words gave him away.

“Did you hurt him?”

Rogers shook his head. A sad smile played on his lips. “Ton- Mr. Stark is fine. We’ve come to an agreement.” He looked around him. “This your school?”

“Why are you here?”

Rogers sighed. “Listen… I think we got off on the wrong foot in Germany.”

“And _I_ think you made the wrong call by trying to _kill your friend._ Not that he’s your friend anymore, is he?”

“You two are close, uh?” That sad smile persisted. “It was… complicated.”

“Yes, and I’m just a sixteen-year-old who couldn’t possibly understand, I know,” Peter countered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Rogers frowned. “Actually, when I was sixteen-”

“I don’t care about your life.”

Rogers lowered the hood further on his head. “I understand. I… came here to apologize.”

“Really?” Peter shifted the weight of his back.

“Really. You know, sometimes people will do bad things because-”

“Don’t bother. What you did was wrong-”

“I know that-”

“And I will _never_ forgive you!”

And Peter walked past him, excepting a protest or a touch; neither came. To his surprise, Rogers didn’t even try and follow him. Just to be sure, Peter stopped in an alley a few blocks away and changed into his old suit. The last molecule of Mr. Stark’s scent as he’d built and touched it was long gone, but Peter still rubbed his cheek against the fabric before putting on the suit.

Flying from building from building did him good. The adrenaline washed away some of the hurt, and part of the returning shame too. Spotting a kid in a tight spot, he lowered himself to the ground and scared away the three bums who’d thought it would be a good idea to intimidate him.

“Thank you so much, Spiderman!” The kid’s smile could have lit half the city.

Peter was in a much better mood afterward.

His aunt texted him a little before seven to let him know dinner was ready.

 _On my way_.

He changed back into his school clothes and took a shortcut. The park was mostly empty at this hour, mostly because it got such a bad reputation families and women tended to avoid it, and drug dealers worked much later. Lost in his thoughts, Peter almost jumped out of his skin when his phone rang.

"Kid."

"Mr. Stark?” His heart raced. “Is everything ok?”

There was a loud _clang_ on the other end of the line. Mr. Stark swore. "Come back to headquarters, kid.” Mr. Stark sounded frantic, almost desperate. Peter clung to the phone harder, chest tightening. If Rogers had done anything...

"Mr. Stark-"

"Kid, you have to take cover right now!”

“But-”

“Hydra is after you, so stop fucking interrupting me and get your ass here!”

Peter swirled around, fists balled, and looked in every possible direction for the oncoming threat that was Hydra. Mr. Stark was now shouting in his ear, using that awful (endearing) pet-name like a punctuation mark. _Listen to me, kid! You have to fly back to the headquarters, have to, must, do this and that, kid, kid, kid…_

Peter snapped. “You told me to sit a fight out recently, remember?”

“Kid-”

“I had to come and save you!” It was Peter’s turn to shout. Grey clouds were gathering in the sky, matching his temper. “I might have refused your offer, but that has nothing to do with my ability to handle myself. I will wait for you and the others here. There’s no civilian around. I can-”

Peter heard the telltale sound of Mr. Stark’s suit assembling. A shiver ran down his spine.

“This was not a request, kid.” Someone spoke in the background; Barton, Peter thought. “There are too many to take out on your own, there would be too many for _me_ to contain without back-up. God damn it, kid, they are _super soldiers_! If I have to ask one more time-”

Peter almost melted at that pleading note. His surrender hovered at the tip of his tongue. He would never be the one for Mr. Stark, it was painfully obvious; and yet Mr. Stark was the one for him, and as such, could ask things out of him that no one else could.

Like retreating in the face of an enemy to save his own skin. Peter closed his eyes in a moment of weakness, and let the words free reign.

“Mr. Stark, I-”

And then the world tumbled upside down. The last thing he saw was an angry face blotting out the stormy sky, the last thing he felt was a powerful kick that broke at least one rib, and the last thing he heard, the very last thing he could comprehend in his state of confusion and terror, was his own name screamed in his ear.  

" _Peter!"_

Everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least, it's longer than my average chapter? *winces*


	7. Obsessions Come in Many Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up in a very dark place, prisoner of a madman who intends to take his revenge on the Avengers.  
> He's the tool, and the distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be plot, and an ATTEMPTED RAPE, so beware the new tags! Also, a second update this week, hurray! (it's now 1:30 in the morning, and I have to get up for work in... well, not enough time to rest properly, apparently)

Darkness slapped him in the face, a danger without a name, faceless and all the more frightening for it. Where was he? How…

The next thing he knew was pain. Rolling to his side, he violently threw up. The right half of his face felt like it’d been hit by a hammer, possibly Thor’s, and his chest ached something fierce. As he tried to stand, pain shot through his leg, and he slid right back to the floor. His right ankle was broken. At least it was still attached, he thought grimly.

He had not the faintest idea where he was, but the place was as dark as a cave. Even with his superior senses, he couldn’t make out dimensions. Careful not to put weight on his weakened leg, he reached out with his hands. Nothing. He dragged himself around the place with his hands and his one good leg, seeking out a door, a wall, a window, anything. Thankfully, wherever this place was, the air was warm and dry, and so was the ground, some even concrete surface.

After what felt like an hour of crawling, he touched something vertical. A wall. In his enthusiasm, he forgot about his ankle and cried out in pain as he angled his foot to stand.

Slowly, he tried again. His hands trembled against the wall. He managed to stand, and once he was stable, allowed himself a brief pause, resting his brow against the hard surface.

The soldiers, he remembered suddenly, tensing up. It was one of them who’d attacked him… right when Mr. Stark had urged him to come back to base.

Really, Peter had no one else but himself to blame for this mess. Lifting a hand to the tingling side of his face, he tried to assess the damage. The barest brush of fingers hurt, but his nose was still straight, and his teeth seemed all in their rightful places. Both eyes felt swollen, especially the right one, but he couldn’t auto-diagnose further.

“I see you’ve woken up, little spider.”

Peter did his best to keep his cool as the voice echoed around him, the tone sharper than a whip’s crack. A moment later, bright lights flooded the room. Peter blinked furiously and turned around to face the madman who’d orchestrated his kidnapping.

It was Doom. Dark hair slicked back, the trademark silver line at his temple, clad in a three-piece suit complete with a tie, he strode away from a pair of monstrously large double doors.

Towards him.

If Peter’s eyesight returned quickly, his physical strength did not. One look down at himself showed him that indeed, his right angle was broken, and his bare chest sported whole hands printed in his skin, violet dark and ugly.

“What do you want?” he asked between clenched teeth.

He saw Doom’s polished shoes stop a few feet in front of him. The telltale sound of electricity sizzling in the air made Peter flinch. Doom’s harsh laugh was like a vice at his throat, tightening on every exhale.

“You’re so young to choose a side, little spider. Why couldn’t you let the adults play?”

“Play?” Peter’s eyes locked on Doom’s. Anger roared in his ears, lending him the courage he so desperately needed. “Is that what you call your attempt on Mr. Stark’s life?”

“He should have died that day. I was going to end him… But you had to intervene.”

“I’m happy I did,” Peter retorted, remembering too late not to be bratty.

Electricity shot through his arm and chest, feeding in loops at the hand Doom had locked on his wrist. Every nerve in his body vibrated with pain. The grip on his wrist was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

“You… f-failed,” he said, teeth clattering.

“Ah, but don’t we always?” Doom replied smoothly, almost pleasantly. “I don’t plan to be so disappointed in the future, darling. I will kill Stark, and every single one in his team of cheap heroes, and all the blame will be on the soldiers… soldiers, my dear boy, whom everyone believes to be dead. A hit to the head doesn’t have to be fatal, you see. I bet _your_ pretty head wouldn’t be so easily damaged either. But I’m digressing,” he said, almost chidingly, at himself.

The next electrical charge drove Peter to his knees. He thought he screamed, but it might only be in his head; it was hard to focus on anything when the inside of his veins felt like lave. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he let his head droop. He couldn’t stop shaking.

“That’s better. More suited to your nature, I believe?”

One of Doom’s feet hit him in the shoulder. Peter rolled to his side, following the motion. He needed a break, and if Doom thought he was out for the count, he might get it.

“A spider such as yourself should know better than to seek an alliance with a group of people who only care about themselves. Aren’t spiders solitary creatures?”

Peter rolled on his back to avoid the next hit, but Doom may have anticipated his reaction, and slammed one heel right under Peter’s left knee. Had Peter been any more human, the bones would have shattered. There was a loud crack, and Peter started sobbing louder, nails breaking on the concrete floor as he attempted to scramble back.

He could hear Mr. Stark in his ear, telling him that it would be all right, that he would get out of this, and meanwhile, Peter had better make the bad guy talk, so that they could use that information to take him down later. Peter smiled. It was wobbly, that smile; his whole face hurt.

“What is it you want?!”

Doom’s smile was all teeth.

“What I want, darling, is to make them pay. And I shall start with the man who owns you. It’s pathetic, really, how you keep following him like a lost puppy. If you’ve been looking at me like that, I would have bedded you long ago… or I might not have bothered and just shoved you against a wall.”

The pain and remaining electricity in his system alone didn’t explain Peter’s heightened dread.  He balled his fists, tuning out the pain of his broken ankle, of his knee, of his bruised face. The memory of Mr. Stark plummeting to the ground, his suit deactivated, somehow, by Doombots, death so close, so eager to whisk him away from Peter, was a wound that ran deeper.

It also gave him strength. He’d saved Mr. Stark’s life; he could take care of himself.

“You will have to go through me first,” he snarled.

Doom, of all things, looked _pleased_.

“I thought you would never ask.”

Before Peter could wrap his mind around Doom’s intentions, the madman kicked him square in the face.

“You’re mad!” He spat blood, aiming for Doom’s face, and was backhanded harshly for his effort. His nose broke, and his jaw almost followed suit. Peter lifted a hand to wipe his mouth, and it came away viscous with blood. A lot of blood. His vision was spotted with black spots, and the more he tried to clear it, the less he could focus. His lungs couldn’t draw enough hair. “What do you hope to accomplish by this?”

“To get back at the Avengers. To hurt them. To make the world see them for what they really are. To wipe the world of Stark’s growing influence. To reap what I sow, for once. Pick one,” Doom spat.

Deftly, he undid his tie and flung it carelessly over his shoulder. Flicked open the buttons of his suit jacket, then of his shirt, one by one. Peter’s eyes fell on the bulge in Doom’s pants, and his heart leaped in his throat. He couldn’t throw up now, he had to get up, had to…

Doom was lightning fast as he came around here and grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair. With one knee, he rolled him on his stomach and pinned him into place. Peter tried to elbow him, even tried to bite, but Doom was stronger, and the electricity at his fingertips forced Peter into submission. Peter didn’t master an element, only spider silk. So delicate, so fragile, and ripe for the taking… At least, that was what Doom whispered in his hear, peeling his clothes from his abused body.

“P-Please…” Peter didn’t know who he was asking, and what he was asking for.

His face connected with the ground. Pain exploded behind his eyes.

“You will be quiet. I intend to savor my vengeance, and I shall take my pleasure in silence, little spider.”

Unable to breathe properly through his nose or his mouth, Peter started to panic in earnest. He bit down his lip to keep in the pleas that wanted out. Quiet. He should focus on that. Be quiet. Don’t feel. Let it all happen, as if this wasn’t him struggling to stay alive, but someone else that looked like him, thought like him, felt everything that he’d ever felt before.

His pants were torn apart. Warm air rushed over his exposed buttocks. Peter munched on his lip with renewed ferocity, taking comfort in the pain that kept insanity at bay. Blood trickled down his chin, splashing the floor one drop at a time. The rest, he swallowed.

Doom positioned him up on all four. Peter sagged forwards, he was close, so close to pass out. The sound of a zipper going down made every muscle in his body tense.

He felt so weak, so useless. What was it that Mr. Stark had said?

 _I’m doing you a disservice._ By allowing him to fight. And yet he’d invited him to be part of the Avengers, hadn’t he? What would he think of him now, naked in an underground prison, about to be raped by an enemy of the very group Peter had officially refused to join?

Peter’s blood boiled, his whole body shook with revulsion, but he couldn’t land a hit now, even if Doom lay back and asked for it. He wanted to scream; he would have, too, if fear hadn’t sealed his lips.

_The team might have lost some of its members, enemies might keep coming at us, but as long as we stick together, work together, have each other's back, it's gonna be all right._

Those were his own words. He should hold on to them. Hope, however remote and bleak, still existed, if only he believed. The Avengers wouldn’t let him down. They fought for each other, even for the youth in their midst. They probably thought he was too young, or something equally stupid. Too young to fight, perhaps.

Too young to love?

Rough hands parted his ass cheeks, exposing his hole. What would Mr. Stark tell him now? Be strong, kid? It’s gonna hurt like hell, but you can take it, you can survive, you _will_ survive this?

Was he even looking for him?

When the blunt head of Doom’s cock caught at the rim of his hole, Peter screwed his eyes shut. How peculiar, and yet predictable, that his mind’s focus should be on the imminent loss of his virginity, a gift he’d intended to offer the one man who’d never asked for it, and would probably never want it.

He forced the words out. He belonged to the Avengers, even if he wasn’t one of them. He had to protect the world, even when he couldn’t do anything to protect himself.

“If you can… raise the dead, why bother with the l-likes of me?”

His voice was hoarse; he didn’t recognize it. Doom’s grip in his hair tightened slightly.

“I don’t raise the dead, little spider. No one can, not even me. But machines can be revived. And while I take care of the child the precious Avengers let out of their sight, my friends can use their distraction to their advantage.”

“What did the world… ever do to you?” His face throbbed as he spoke.

“It made me who I am. And since life isn’t fair, I will have to create fairness in it myself, starting with you. Here we go-”

Just as Doom’s hips snapped forwards, the double doors were blasted to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger already? Damn... at least, there's the word 'blasted' at the end to help you figure out what comes next :P


	8. By Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter got saved by his knight in shining armor, and now he’s a bit high. The morphine may or may not make him say things he’d otherwise keep for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments and... enjoy!

Peter woke to the sound of two voices, one male and one female, whispering in the darkness. Stifling a whimper of pain, he turned his head to the side an inch in a feeble attempt to ease the ache in his back. Moving more, even to get more comfortable, didn’t seem to be worth the effort. At least, the silky blankets loosely tucked around his battered body were light and smelled clean. He didn’t feel clean.

"... a while yet," the female voice was saying.

A name popped in Peter's mind: Ms. Potts. He couldn't see her, couldn't bear to open his eyes, but her tone soothed some of the stressed strings inside him. She’d always been so nice to him, Ms. Potts. He liked her, even considered her a friend, even if she’d got to share intimacy with the man he loved and whereas he was doomed to go on living with his feelings locked away, and a useless key weighing him down.

Doomed. Ha! Yes, that was exactly what he was.

"I know that, Pep'," replied the man, no, not the man: Mr. Stark. His belly did a funny twist that left him breathless. "And there won't be a damned meeting that will keep me away from him at a time like this. You can tell Barton and Romanov to go enjoy each other for now."

Pepper's voice became urgent, coaxing. She was good at ignoring Mr. Stark’s provocative strike. "You need to rest, Tony. I can assure you I'm perfectly able to watch over him. He's dear to me too, you know. We all like him very much… including Clint and Natasha. You know this. It’s not because-" She sounded close to tears now, and Peter moaned quietly as he struggled to swallow, to breathe. Pictures were coming back to him now, memories of a room shrouded in shadows, and the monster who'd locked him there, in his lair. The fear, the pain of electricity burning through his body, the shame of being on all four, vulnerable, unable to fight, while Doom meant to take what-

Peter squeezed his eyes so tight it hurt.

It was all right. He was all right.

Or he would be.

He started to shiver. The voices moved closer.

"I'm not in the lab, Pep'. I can feel asleep right here in this damn chair if I want to. But I can't. At least, if he wakes up, he will see a face he trusts." Peter could swear he heard Mr. Stark swallow. He clenched one hand, then the other. Unclenched them. He needed something, but he didn't know what yet. More morphine, perhaps. His enhanced metabolism would break it down faster than if he’d been regular human material, but it would still help with the pain. The kind that could be managed with a simple click, that is.

"You think he doesn't trust me?" Ms. Potts protested in hushed tones.

Mr. Stark's reply was too low for Peter to hear, even with his heightened senses. The sound of Tony's lips on Pepper's cheek and the door closing and opening, however, was almost deafening.

He shivered harder and thought back on the only highlight of his current state.

*

_The next thing to get hit was the man trying to rape him. Peter was so on board with that._

_With a yowl of pain, Doom landed several feet back. Almost instantly, Mr. Stark raised his hand to fire at him again, but Doom was not a continuous thorn in the Avengers’ side because he preferred Tom Ford to Armani; he retaliated with his own weapon of mass destruction, bringing down a part of the ceiling on top of Iron Man. Peter, who’d broken free from the paralysis spell the threat of rape had cast on him, swallowed down the pain coursing through his body and swivelled around on his knees, throwing extra thick strands of spider silk at Doom’s throat. Meanwhile, Mr. Stark had gone airborne and was now engaged in a  duel with Doom. Peter continued throwing restraints at Doom, aiming at his wrists and ankles, and managed to force him back a few other steps, which was not much, but still enough that the enemy had to split his attention between Iron Man and Spider-Man._

_“Get down, kid!”_

_Peter didn’t question the order and flattened himself to the ground, whining as his broken ankle collided with the concrete. The next thing he knew, a shockwave erupted mere inches above his still body. Doom screamed in agony. Peter smiled tiredly; he’d forgotten about that new addition to the Iron Man’s suit, a little 'surprise' that Mr. Stark had borrowed to Coulson’s team the last time he’d wanted to get revenge on S.H.I.E.L.D and give Fury an aneurysm._

_Then the ceiling started to shake. Peter turned his head to the side and saw Mr. Stark raise both hands in the direction of the breaking concrete. The explosion that followed the intervention didn’t reach Peter; Mr. Stark hovered between him and the threat, both threats. Peter could hardly believe the man had needed his help in the past; he was so resourceful, so cunning, and Peter…_

_Peter was so grateful to see him._

_His hands shook as he struggled to cover as much of his buttocks and front as he could with his torn pants. He wasn’t sure what happened next, because pain could be dismissed for only so long, but Doom and Mr. Stark fought some more, destroying additional parts of this dark cavern as a result. Peter was that close to passing out when he made out Doom escaping, and Mr. Stark staying behind._

_For him?_

_“Kid.”_

_Mr. Stark stood amidst the flames and broken concrete, faceplate up, a deus ex machina in the guise of an angel. Blood stained his lips, and Peter thirsted for a taste, a single drop that he could swallow and keep inside him, and cherish, like a secret altar to the human god he worshiped in secret._

_“Peter.” Mr. Stark crouched but didn’t touch him. The goatee Peter liked so much seemed soaked in blood, but that was probably just the poor light. A bloody line ran down the right side of the man’s face like a claw mark. Brown eyes found Peter’s, the steady warmth in them seeping into the youth’s tired body. “Fuck, kid, I’m sorry I took so long.” He extended both hands._

_Peter first thought was that he ought to grab those hands to get up, but his body refused to cooperate, and he felt gravity pull at him._

_"Here, let me." The arms of the suit wound around him, carefully lifting him off the ground. A whimper of pain wanted to leave his lips, but Peter obstinately refused to lend it voice. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his face to the comforting, oh so comforting, cold metal of the suit chest plate. He could hear Mr. Stark’s breath, could sense his heartbeat, and the proximity was both a balm and a fresh wound. What had Mr. Stark seen? Did he think that Peter- Did it change what- Could Peter explain-_

_“You’re safe,” Mr. Stark said hoarsely, his grip too tight, and just right. “I have you, Peter.”_

_The renewed use of his name tugged at something inside him that had gone dormant since he’d been brought to yield in this awfully dark place._

_Hope._

*

Ms. Potts had left the room five minutes ago, after Mr. Stark had gone to grab another coffee. The man now sat close by, looking at nothing, and seeing everything, as Peter discreetly drank in his profile. He doubted Mr. Stark would notice him just yet; he looked lost in thought, and by the way his face kept darkening, those thoughts must not be of the pleasant variety.

“Kid? Peter? Thanks god you’re awake!”

Guilty as charged, Peter opened his mouth to apologize, but Mr. Stark was not done just yet.

“Are you ok? Stupid question, I know you must in pain despite your accelerated healing factor, but-” He laid a hand on the bed just inches from Peter’s hip and squeezed the sheets. Grief and fear, relief and happiness played in his eyes like so many actors on the stage of his consciousness.

“I’m- I’m fine,” Peter said slowly. He hardly recognized his voice, but his words seemed to lighten Mr. Stark’s mood, so he tried again: “I feel… ok, I guess.”

“You still look like a mess,” the man said, blinking fast, his hand on the bed moving until it found Peter’s through the sheets. “I wish-” He looked away. His throat bobbed, and Peter watched, fascinated, as Mr. Stark bit down his lip. “I wish you’d listened to me.”

“I-”

“I also wish I could have killed the bastard.”

Peter managed to turn his hand around. The sheets were so thick; he wanted the security of Mr. Stark’s naked palm against his own. The heat.

As if sensing what he was trying to achieve by whining pitifully, Mr. Stark gently lowered the sheets until his and Peter’s hand met. The gloriousness of that simple touch brought a sigh to Peter’s lips. He took the glass of water Mr. Stark handed him and drank slowly, lips locked on the pink straw. It was probably Ms. Potts’ idea. Or Widow’s. He found himself smiling in spite of the pain.  

For a while, neither of them spoke. Peter would have been quite content to spend the next hour or two like this, hands linked, but Mr. Stark had never dealt well with silence. Letting go of Peter’s hand with a crunched face that was downright adorable, he made a gesture to touch Peter’s face, but stopped himself, growled, and put his hand back into his lap. He didn’t quite look at Peter when he spoke.

“Kid, you are under absolutely no obligation to tell me anything about what happened… about what- about Doom, what he did, but I think-”

Peter pushed back the straw with his tongue, trying to keep his heartbeat under control. The last thing he needed was for it to go through the roof, which Mr. Stark wouldn’t fail to notice with how _he was being monitored from head to feet_.

“He didn’t do anything,” he said in what he hoped was a fierce voice. And because he wanted to wipe the sadness from Mr. Stark’s face (it was not his fault; how could it be his fault?), he added: “And you’re right. I should have listened to you.”

He could tell Mr. Stark wanted to argue the first part, and braced himself for a painful argumentation, but the man shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. Peter started to relax against the pillows. Mr. Stark had arrived in the nick of time, he told himself firmly, but he did stop Doom. And Peter refused to linger on what could have happened if he’d been alone one more minute with that monster.

“Could I get more morphine?”

“Of course,” Mr. Stark said hurriedly. “I should have asked already. Fuck, I’m not doing my job, am I? I should be taking better care of you and here I am, babbling away, while you’re in pain. Fuck. And fuck, I shouldn’t be swearing.”

He laughed nervously, but Peter could say that he was relieved to be able to do _something_ about Peter’s state. Something nice.

A few moments later, relief flooded his abused body. He let out a low moan of delight.

“He escaped,” he said, strangely more focused on the issue at hand now that he was floating, the pain momentarily erased by the drugs. “Doom.”

“Yes,” Mr. Stark replied between his teeth.

“What about the… soldiers?”

“We’re hunting them down as we speak.”

“You regret not being with the rest of the Avengers right now, do you?” Peter said without missing a beat, bolder than he would have been had the morphine not removed his inhibitions. “You like to fight, and punish those who deserve it. Like me.”

“You?” Mr. Stark frowned, and Peter wanted to smooth his brow. He attempted to sit, but Mr. Stark coaxed him back in a lying position with light touches to his chest and shoulders. “What do you mean? Sure, you should have listened, and fuck, you’re getting grounded for dismissing my orders, you can be sure of it, but-”

“I really didn’t expect Doom to be the one controlling those soldiers,” Peter interrupted him, switching subjects and not understanding, in his state, why Mr. Stark appeared so confused.

“He… He told you that?”

“Yes,” Peter confirmed, and then related all of Doom’s boastful speech. And if he forgot himself and let slip the part where Doom had said that Peter was following Mr. Stark like a lost puppy and would have fucked him long ago if he’d looked at him the way he kept looking at Mr. Stark, well, it was the drugs talking. Still, he had the presence of mind to assure Mr. Stark that Doom was a self-delusional man who fantasized about fucking little boys against the wall, and thus that what he said shouldn't be taken as face value.

By the end of his little speech, Mr. Stark looked a bit pale and had hidden his face in his hands with a few colorful swearwords. Peter picked another topic, of the firm belief that the flush creeping up the man's neck didn't go well with the pallor.

“Shouldn’t I be in school? he asked lightly. “Could I have more water? If you don't mind.”

Mr. Stark left the room so fast Peter wondered if he was going to be sick. He was starting to worry when Mr. Stark hurried back with a full glass of water, and Peter smiled up at him gratefully.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So, school,” Mr. Stark huffed, sinking down in his chair. “Don’t worry about that; the team told your Aunt that you had a car accident. And before you ask, we’ve also notified that friend of yours.”

“Oh yes.” Peter blinked twice. “Ned _would_ worry.” His thoughts were going in all kinds of interesting directions, and he definitely wanted to kiss Mr. Stark. Except that the more he tried to sit, the more Mr. Stark insisted he stay under the covers and sleep some more. Peter stopped fighting once a brief kiss was placed on his forehead. It tingled all the way to his toes. Warmth pooled in his chest and coiled in his groin. Peter spread his thighs under the sheets as he felt himself harden. In his mind’s eye, he could see Mr. Stark kneeling between his trembling legs, one hand on his hip, another nudging his thighs further apart, caressing his balls, stroking the base of his erect cock. The anticipated contrast in texture between his own soft, sensitive skin and those clever, calloused, thick (he gulped) fingers, already drove him a bit wild.

Mr. Stark would be so gentle when he touched him _there_. He would massage the sensitive ring of muscles, praising him as he did so, smiling, eyes hooded with desire, until Peter begged for his cock, for communion, and Mr. Stark would give it to him then, would give him everything, just like Peter was willing to offer himself, body and soul, on a silver platter carved to satisfy the man's needs. 

He would be so gentle. He would be nothing like Doom.

And they would fit so well together. 

“Kid.”

He was slowly dozing off, comforted by the heady scene playing out behind his eyelids, and the physical presence at his side feeding the delicious pictures that would, he hoped, be part of his dream.

“Mr. Stark?”

“What did you mean, when you said you deserved to be punished?”

Peter paused his mental lovemaking with the man sitting right beside him and tried to come up with a complete sentence. He was drifting, and so were the words, away from him.

“For what I did to you,” he said at last, voice airy. “Worrying you. Disobeying. Maybe you should, I don't know, spank me-”

“Kid!”

“… so that I remember, never to let you down again, never to fail you, and myself,” Peter babbled on, failing to see a connection between the words tumbling from his mouth and the consequence of their existence. “You should make it hard, I think. The spanking, I mean. That’s how you should do it, or I might not- I think it wouldn’t have the desired effect, and it's not like I speak from experience, but still, it could work. I remember you saying you don't think this kind of punishment works, but maybe you should try. With me. I am different, always have been, and I think... What was I saying?”

He heard a choked sound, and then the frantic gurgling of someone draining their cups.

“You do like coffee,” he chuckled, earning himself a gasp. Mr. Stark’s heavy breathing as he rose and began to pace the room pleased him for a reason that both eluded him and struck him as important.

“Go to sleep, kid.” Mr. Stark sounded very, _very_ annoyed. “You’re delirious.”

Peter meant to refute that last statement, but the mental image of Mr. Stark leaning into him, whispering _I love you_ , lulled him to sleep.


	9. The Enemy of My Enemy if not My Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has to learn to pick his battles, and also to stop blushing like a red light.  
> An adventure in apples, teasing, and possessive determiners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love!

The fourteenth day after Rogers' return to the Tower and Doom’s attack on the Avengers, Peter collapsed into his bed and curled into a ball of exhaustion, half-wishing he could get into cryogenic sleep for the next decade or so. He needed his rest desperately, but the more he tried to relax and let go of all his worries, the less his body cooperated.

After half an hour of turning around in his bed, he rolled onto his back and punched the wall. A small crack appeared in the plaster, but Peter was too worn out to feel guilty over his bad taste in redecoration.

"Ah, come on…"

The last two weeks had been hell for more than one reason. First, there were the nightmares. About Doom, of course, and what could have happened, but also about Mr. Stark. About Mr. Stark finding out about Peter's feelings and laughing at him. He kept waking up drenched in sweat, trusting Mr. Stark to be just right here by his side, telling him that it was all right, that nothing could ever break the bond they shared, but he was always alone, and always crying.

Then, there was the time he’d spent in the sickbay babbling (he was sure) about stuff he couldn’t recall, and it drove him a little crazy (or crazier than usual, according to Barton, not that the archer’s word was worth much in an economy based on honesty).

The only parts he remembered with any clarity were being handed a glass of water chided for his carelessness. He thought Mr. Stark’s hand might have touched his, but he wasn't sure, and it wasn't like he was going to ask, lest he blushed and betrayed his secret right here and then.

So what if he’d been a tad more defensive and impatient than usual? Nobody dealt well with memory loss, let alone people with secrets.

Mr. Stark had assured him that he'd given the team valuable insight as to Doom's motives and role in the super soldiers' attack. And if something had bit a been off when he’d given that explanation, if his smile had been a touch too bright, his eyes moving every which way as if a teenager who moonshined as a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man couldn't possibly hold his attention for more than a heartbeat, well, there was nothing Peter could do about it.

Mr. Stark's demeanor  _had_  changed since the attack, and Peter’s certainty that it was linked to whatever he’d said in the sick bay drove him up the walls in a loop.

To say that he was relieved when he heard his cellphone ringing would be an understatement.

It was Mr. Stark. In his eagerness to take the call, Peter dropped the phone twice. He briefly considered punching the wall again, but he wasn’t twelve, and he’d better keep his temper in check if he didn’t want _someone_ to find out about the depth of his affection for a certain billionaire, playboy (he winced), and philanthropist.

*

He landed on the doorstep of the headquarters twelve minutes later, out of breath but in better spirits. Even if his heart felt like a puzzle with a few missing pieces, he would never endanger his friendship with Mr. Stark, and refuse to help those in need. Besides, Ned wasn’t wrong when he’d claimed that kicking ass did wonders for the soul.

“Welcome back,” Friday told him in her usual suave voice.

“Glad to see you too,” he said cheerfully.

The door slid open, and Peter rushed through. The elevator was already waiting and brought him to the Avengers common floor in a blink.

He was determined to be a reliable team member tonight, even if it meant postponing his intensive study of what exactly he’d said in that drugged rambling the other day. The prospect of seeing Mr. Stark for the first time since he’d left his bed (and the headquarters) caused his chest to swell with bittersweet delight. 

He drew himself higher as he exited the elevator. The team was already there, most of them ready to go, with Barton arranging a last strap on his suit and Widow hiding a micro-thick blade in another invisible pocket of her black suit. Peter’s eyes immediately sought Mr. Stark… only to zero on _Rogers_.

“What is he doing here?” They both asked at the same time.

An eerie silence settled on the room. Mrs. Potts, who’d been whispering in Mr. Stark’s ear, bent to pick up a suitcase and scurried out of the room. Peter would have returned her small wave if not for the fact that the man who’d betrayed the one he loved stood in their midst, perhaps plotting another betrayal. Peter didn’t care that Rogers had tried to apologize to him the other day, or that he’d warned the team of the super soldiers’ intentions. There was nothing in this world that could convince him to be nice to Rogers, not even Mr. Stark’s assurances that they were fast friends again.

Not that it appeared to be the case, with how the two men stood with their backs to each other, stiff and proud. Words must have been exchanged again, and Peter regretted not having insisted more to come back to the headquarters sooner.

“You’re ready, kid?” Mr. Stark asked, as if the air wasn’t heavy with disapproval.

“We don’t need him,” Rogers said in what he probably thought was a polite voice. “No offense, Spiderman.”

Peter slipped the hood over his head. “Well, I take offense.” Sensing Mr. Stark’s unease, and realizing he might very well be asked to sit out another fight because a murderer thought he wasn’t _needed_ , because he was young and sixteen and still so much better than him in all respects, Peter swallowed back the protests on the tip of his tongue, instead nodding at every one except Rogers.

“What’s the plan?”

The plan was, it turned out, to stop a detachment of semi-organic, semi-robotic aliens whose size ranged from that of a bird to that of a small plane. Peter was relieved at the opportunity _not_ to face Doom or one of his puppet super soldier. He really wished to see all of them behind bars, but up till now the team had failed to apprehend any of them, and Peter could work out a little of his frustration (and the remaining fear) by fighting those slow moving, brainless dual-natured beings falling down the sky.

Not fifteen minutes into the battle, his suit was slick with dark goo, and he already sported a few bruises from a collision with one of the bigger specimens. Since he’d voluntarily stepped in the way of the alien to allow Mr. Stark time to incapacitate another plane-sized alien, he didn’t regret it.

“To your left, Parker!”

Peter heeded Barton’s advice and yanked a small creature towards him with a thread of spider-silk, flinging it over his shoulder into the side of a sport center. He _was_ distracted, and he always was, watching over Mr. Stark at all times, but with the added responsibility of keeping an eye on Rogers, he didn’t offer one of his most stellar performances. Mr. Stark scolded him over the coms because he thought _he_ needed to watch his back, but Peter didn’t get to reply, because Rogers had just landed in front of the man with a trail of aliens at his heels.

“It’s ok, Spiderman, we’ve got it!” Rogers said over the coms.

Peter nevertheless cut through the organic/robotic armada to do his share of the work while Rogers broke a few down with his shield and Mr. Stark blasted a significant amount of goo-producing aliens into oblivion.

“We really don’t need your help,” Rogers insisted. “This enemy will be easily dealt with and isn’t associated with Doom.”

Peter jumped on what ought to be the ‘back’ of one aliens and twisted its head out of its neck, stuffing a grenade in its chest and throwing the now headless body into a cloud of its comrades. A dozen or so aliens exploded.

“I wouldn’t use that word so casually if I were you,” he sing songed, pulling himself towards another roof with a fine white thread.

“What word?” Rogers sounded nonplussed.

“Enemy.”

“Spiderman, I-”

“Stop antagonizing my spider,” Mr. Stark cut in, turning around to kick at a small alien Peter’s explosion had missed, and Peter felt his lips curl up into a savage smile. He’d said _my_. _My!_

The battle continued on swiftly, and eventually Rogers found somewhere else to be. Peter tried not to be too obvious in his surveillance, and he thought he’d done a good job until Widow tapped his shoulder, covered the microphone and whispered in his ear that spiders were known to be independent creatures. Still, he was in such a good mood since the use of that possessive determiner that he went on punching and throwing and pulling with joy. The fact that Mr. Stark was never really in danger certainly helped.

By the time the sun set over the busy city, the fight was over with minimal casualties. The look of pride on Rogers’ face made Peter want to punch him, but he couldn’t be seen as the immature member of their little group. God, he couldn’t wait to be twenty-one!

He was surveying the landscape of goo below, jumping from roof to roof, checking if civilians were taken care of, when he spotted Iron Man out of the corner of his eye.  

“Everything’s ok, Mr. Stark?”

“It’s you I’m worried about,” Mr. Stark replied very seriously. “You took quite a hit earlier. And I _saw_ you limping.”

Peter wished he could deny it. “You know I heal really fast. It’s nothing.”

“Kid-”

He knew what was coming. "Would you insist I sit out fights if I had accepted to be part of the team, officially?"

"Why didn't you?"

Peter had to wonder how long Mr. Stark had wanted to get an answer to that question. Suddenly, there didn’t seem to be enough place for everything in his belly, and words just wouldn’t go through his throat. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His chest fluttered.

"Because..."

"… you want to give me white hair prematurely?"

Peter snorted, and some of the knots relaxed. He considered an answer that would both protect his secret and satisfy Mr. Stark. It was a good thing he was so talented at multitasking, or he would have ended up with his face against some form of concrete more than once making up an excuse.

"I thought it would be better at the time," he said at last. He had to assume Mr. Stark had cut the communications with the rest of the team. “I was wrong.”

"What if you weren't?"

"I was," Peter gritted between his teeth. His right ankle, doubly fragile after his little stunt earlier, protested as he landed on the sidewalk by an outdoor market, deserted but for a few people wearing identical horrified expressions. "I'm healed now. I can help, and I was called to help. _You_ called me, remember?"

“Yeah, yeah…”

Iron Man landed at his side, knocking a basket of ripe tomatoes to the side. The helmet flipped up, exposing his handsome face. Peter was glad for the mask, because he was sure he was blushing from the intensity of the look sent his way.  

Then Mr. Stark’s face scrunched up in some kind of grimace that Peter wished he could smooth away with a kiss, or those words that were eating at him. Instead, he smiled, a bit shyly.

“I still think I’m doing you a disservice, _but_ I’m glad you were having my back earlier,” Mr. Stark admitted, picking up a heavy, metallic door in the middle of the street and placing it between two vegetables stands.

“It’s only fair,” Peter said hurriedly, certain he was blushing now. “You had mine too.”

God, but he loved that man. He loved how easily they could fight side by side, and talk of anything and everything. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Stark’s hands on him as he’d stitched that wound that was no longer visible, about the affection in his expression as he’d sit by his bed after he’d rescued him.

He loved him so much.

“I think you’ve got a couple tomatoes on the loose,” he blurted out in a poor attempt to put his traitorous mind back on track.

Mr. Stark snorted and bent to put the fruits back in their basket. "I wish I could land in my suit like you do in yours," he honest-to-God _whined_.

Peter crouched beside him to help. Their hands brushed, and Peter could feel warmth climb up his arm and spread into the rest of his body in spite of the gloves covering their skins. "And I wish  _I_ had the brains to make  _your_ suit.”

“I wish you would call me Tony.”

Peter bit his lip. Hard. “I might, someday.”

“Is it because you don’t like the name?” Ton- no, Mr. Stark, insisted.

“No, it’s really just a matter of habit.”

“And age difference?” Mr. Stark suggested.

Peter froze for a moment. “ _No_ ,” he said firmly. “I’ve known you for years before we met, and it’s always been ‘Mr. Stark’.”

“Ah, so that’s why there’re _two_ posters of me in your room.”

“They were a gift!” Peter immediately protested (lied), but Mr. Stark only laughed, and it was such a joyous, honest, wonderful laugh that Peter stayed the fuck down, unmoving, lest he threw himself in Mr. Stark’s ( _Tony’s_ ) arms and kissed that sweet spot behind his ear that he’d seen Mrs. Potts lick once, back when the two of them were together.

He remembered Mr. Stark’s moan like it was yesterday.

“I’m sorry?”

Both Peter and Mr. Stark turned towards a plumb woman with a bowl of yellow apples.

“It’s not much, but if you’re hungry…”

“Thank you, Miss.”

The woman laughed, delighted. With a grin, Peter rolled his mask to free his mouth and bit into one of the apples. Juice ran down his chin, and he chased every last drop of it with his tongue. He felt Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look up just yet, in case it was only his fantasies getting mixed up with reality.

He ate the whole fruit and flung the core in the park over the street before allowing himself a look at Mr. Stark.

The man was studying the apple he’d been offered with way too much circumspection.

“Think of how pleased Ms. Potts will be,” Peter joked. “Here.” He plucked the apple from his gauntlet-covered hand, split it in two halves in handed one back to Mr. Stark. “More appealing now? Baby steps.”

Those brown eyes were _definitely_ on him, and Peter’s lips parted on their own, welcoming an imaginary mouth, the burnt of a goatee and the hot wetness of a tongue. His heart started beating faster. He reminded himself in time that Friday could pick up his life signs from the suit and tried to relax.

Mr. Stark took a first bite. Peter would have given away a lot of things, and a few chosen body parts (or maybe not, but he was too entranced by the sight to be very logical at the moment) to lick the juice off Mr. Stark’s chin. He pictured himself on his knees, asking for a taste, and imagined Mr. Stark asking him _of what_.

He gave himself a mental slap. Now was not the time to get an erection. With his suit, he might as well scream it to the world.

"Oh, but you have brains, kid. Brains and looks. You've got nothing to envy. Don't try and be me, please," Mr. Stark said casually. It took Peter a while to connect the dots and remember the last thing he’d said. When he did, he had to fight the urge to tell Mr. Stark that he didn’t want to be him, but to be _with_ him. He knew better, of course, so he got a firm mental grip on the part of his brain that was running wild.

Widow shouted at them from a nearby staircase. Mr. Stark sighed. "It continues to amaze me that you don't seem to want a normal life, kid. School, family, girlfriend."

The tone wasn't patronizing, but the assumption made Peter's hackles rise all the same. He wished he still had the apple core, to throw at the man's head. "First off, my grades are off the chart, ok? And I spend time with my aunt, with my friends-"

"Ok, ok, forget about what I-"

"And there's no such thing as a  _girl_ friend where I'm concerned."

Mr. Stark’s eyebrows jumped. His chin was still glistening with apple juice.

“Is that you coming out, kid, or I am imagining the blush you’re trying to hide from me?” His tone was light, non-judgmental, and affectionate.

Peter pulled the rest of his hood down and snarled. It was either that, or dissolving into a pool of shame.

“You did not hear this.”

“Hear what?”

Mr. Stark’s smile was dazzling, and then the helmet was back into place.

Peter wished he could draw well enough to immortalize the face that haunted his dreams.


	10. The Soft Edge of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Peter wakes up from a horrible nightmare in one of the guest rooms of the Avengers Headquarters, he doesn’t expect to meet Mr. Stark in the kitchen.  
> He expects even less the man to sit with him and massage the ankle Doom had broken weeks ago.  
> When one of Mr. Stark’s one-night-stands calls, he also doesn’t expect the older man’s reaction.  
> Frankly, he beings to likes surprises... until he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sort of getting various headaches switching from one fic to another, but I guess it’s my punishment from wanting to do too many things at once.  
> Thanks to all of you who've been following this story from the beginning, and welcome to those discovering it today!

The night following his accidental confession, Peter dreamt of Mr. Stark.

He'd been exhausted from the fight. After a few bites of the Indian take-out they'd all shared in the communal kitchen, Peter had called it a night. He'd been physically exhausted, yes, but more than that, he couldn't relax in Roger's presence, and the fact that Mr. Stark would accept to eat in this traitor’s presence simply drove him up the wall.

Why did Mr. Stark refuse to understand that people simply didn’t change that easily?

Weary, angry _and_ worried, he'd taken a quick shower, texted Ned back to let him know that yes, he’d kicked aliens’ asses, and yes, he was still in one piece, and then proceeded to shut down every last train of thought leading to HeartbreakLand. Not thinking about Mr. Stark, in any capacity, was not something he did easily, but the mattress was so comfortable in the guest bedroom that for the few minutes it took him to fall asleep, he even managed to forget that Mr. Stark would soon sleep two floors away, well within Peter’s protective reach.

So he dreamt. Truth be told, he dreamt of _Tony_ quite often, but most nights those dreams were about the man wanting him, and all the things Peter wished he could do with his hands and mouth to pleasure him.

Tonight, however, was not one of those times. He didn’t dream of _Tony_ , which would have been quite pleasant, or of Doom’s sadistic pleasure in torturing him, which would have been horrible.

Instead, he dreamt of Mr. Stark’s death.

It was easily the most frightening nightmare he’d ever had, and he woke up screaming, heart pounding and tears trailing down his cheeks.

“Peter?”

“It’s fine.” His voice wobbled. It was a nightmare. Mr. Stark was alive. “Please don’t tell Mr. Stark. It’s just…” He struggled to breathe. “Just a nightmare. I’ll be fine.”

Friday still sounded worried. “Perhaps you should get up for a little while?”

Putting on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants over his shaking frame, Peter had to wonder if that was what Mr. Stark did whenever he had a nightmare. He could imagine only too easily how, in a parallel universe, he would try and wrap himself around Mr. Stark in such a case, whisper kind words into his ear, and suggest all kinds of distractions (of which not half of them were even sexual). He would offer to talk about it…

Closing the bedroom door behind him, Peter buried that bittersweet fantasy in that double-locked chest of unfilled wishes.

“How about a hot chocolate, Peter?” Friday suggested gently.

“Why not?”

“Would you like for me to direct you in-”

“No, that’s fine.” Peter flicked the lights open in the communal kitchen. Sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“You’ve just had a terrible nightmare.”

Peter shook his head. “Still, I apologize.”

Friday’s voice was affectionate as she replied. “You will find marshmallow in the cupboard to your right.”

“Thank you, Friday.”

“You are very welcome, Peter.”

There was milk in the fridge, and chocolate powder on the counter. Peter thought he remembered Banner foregoing his usual cup of tea for hot chocolate from time to time. After heating up the milk and pouring a little too much chocolate powder in the steaming liquid, he tore open one corner of the marshmallows package and stuffed a dozen into his drink.

He was lifting the mug to his lips when all the hair on his arms stood on end. For half a second, he expected Rogers and braced himself for a fight; the next half-second, his brain informed him that it was Mr. Stark.

He didn’t exactly relax, but he did taste his hot chocolate as he turned around.

“Hey, kid.”

Peter’s heart started to beat faster. Mr. Stark’s eyes were red-rimmed, as if he, too, had just cried. He looked as if he’d just left his bed, and of course Peter had to really look at him now, at the tight wife-beater that outlined the muscular chest he’d all but wanted to lick that day he’d seen him naked. His pants were sweats, just like Peter’s, and they hung low on his hips, as if to taunt Peter even further.  

North, he thought. Don’t look south. You're guilty of too many sins already

“Are you ok?” he blurted out.

Mr. Stark folded his arms on his chest and frowned. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question?” He jerked his chin at the mug in Peter’s hands. “Hot chocolate at three fifteen in the morning? Even without that very telling clue, you look like you’ve just looked at…” He trailed off and turned his head away, a haunted look in his eyes.

“I had a… nightmare,” Peter offered, hoping it would encourage Mr. Stark to open up about the source of his own unease.

“I can see that.” Mr. Stark shifted from foot to foot. He almost looked… nervous? “Well, as you’ve already taken care of the hot chocolate part, how about you let me help you in another way?”

“How?” Peter could have bashed his head against a wall, but Mr. Stark just smiled. It was a lovely smile, not exactly like the one he’d worn upon swearing to keep Peter’s sexual orientation a secret, but close enough. Peter filled it away in his mental gallery dedicated to beauty.

“Come and see.” Mr. Stark led him to the leaving room. “Sit.”

Peter sat. He was good at following the older man’s orders, if only they didn’t involve risking his own life.

“Now close your eyes and let me work my magic.”

Peter didn’t even try to hide the violent shivers coursing through him.

“Kid.”

“Yes?”

“It’s ok if you would rather, uh, keep your eyes open.”

Peter thought he knew where the concern came from. “It’s fine.” It was more than fine. With Mr. Stark close to him, he was slowly letting go of the fear brought about by the nightmare of his death. “Doom... He really didn’t do anything.” Didn’t have the time, because you came.

“You said something along those lines, but since you were high as a kite at that time, I wasn’t sure if you were… sugarcoating the truth or something.”

“What was it you said about magic?”

Peter hadn’t meant for the change in topics to be so abrupt, but the fact that he could not remember much of what had happened when he’d lain in bed blabbering was nothing but reassuring. It would be perfectly his style to declare his undying love for Mr. Stark… but if he’d done that, surely Mr. Stark would have mentioned it?

Except that Mr. Stark tended to deal with some of his issues by ignoring them.

And Peter would be exactly that if he confessed: an issue. A _problem_.

“Just… Tell me if I’m hurting you, ok?” Tony said in a whisper, jerking him off from those noxious thoughts.

Peter was still trying to process those words that were definitely not meant like he hoped they could have been meant when Mr. Stark sat in turn on the couch, picked up his legs, arranged them on his lap, and pulled the lid off _something_.

Peter yelped at the sensation of coldness on his right ankle. Then he whimpered, because Mr. Stark’s hands (those hands that fueled so many a fantasy) were touching him, rubbing what ought to be some ointment into the skin. If he didn’t dare open his eyes now, it wasn’t just because it had been suggested to him that he kept them close.

“You know…” He struggled for words. His voice had dropped an octave or two, and it wasn’t good, but Mr. Stark didn’t seem to react in any way and continued to, well, work his magic. Because this was magic, there was no other word for it. “My an-ankle is perfectly healed.”

“So you keep telling Bruce.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“I beg to disagree. You’ve injured it yesterday, again. And last week at school. Pep told me. I know you can heal, Spiderman, but it really bothers me to see you limp, and well, I need to do something with my hands…. Besides, it’s not like you’re complaining.”

Three thoughts rushed to the front of Peter’s mind.

  * Potts had rated him out.
  * He would _really_ like for Mr. Stark to be the reason he was limping.
  * Could Mr. Stark’s need to work with his hands be explained by the haunted look Peter had spied in his eyes earlier in the kitchen?



“… and since you refuse to listen to the voice of reason and sit out the fights I deem too dangerous…”

“You’re one to talk!” Peter protested. “You’re in danger, too.”

“You could have a normal life, kid.”

“Why would I want a normal life when I can have you?!”

Peter’s eyes snapped open, and for several heartbeats, he expected Mr. Stark to flee and never return. The calloused hands had stilled on his foot. Peter thought fast. He was good at that; one of the reasons he was still alive, and his secret still safe.

Hopefully.

“You, plural. The team, Mr. Stark! I don’t want to give up what I have with all of you. What I mean is…” The sigh was genuine. “You shouldn’t feel responsible for me.”

Mr. Stark hummed non-committedly and resumed his massage. Peter chided his body from trying to betray him at every turn. He had to focus most of his will on directing the blood away from his groin, lest he suddenly sprouted an erection with Mr. Stark's skillful hands and knowing eyes on him.

“I can’t help it,” Mr. Stark said after a while. His thumb outlined the bone of his ankle, dug just hard enough for the touch to be excruciatingly pleasurable. “The way I feel about you, I mean.”

Peter gritted his teeth. Why did he have to-

“Kid, what’s wrong?”

It was Peter’s turn to freeze. “What?”

“It can’t still bother you, can it?”

“What?”

“Your wound. On your arm. You were… tracing it?”

 _Oh._ Peter immediately let go of the faded stitch marks. Of course the wound (all but healed now, without a scar) didn’t bother him. He just liked to remember the intimate touch of Mr. Stark’s fingers on his broken flesh, the slight pain of the thread tightening, of the needle pushing and twisting. Pain wasn’t one of Peter’s kinks, but he would have endured a lot more (and he had, at Doom’s hands), in order to get Mr. Stark to truly see him.

“I’m just… thinking.”`

“I suppose brains like ours never stop working,” Mr. Stark teased.

Peter blushed. Mr. Stark had a mischievous look about him. He lifted his foot, cradled it with both hands, and started to work at the knots of its arch. And he _looked_ at him, as if waiting for some kind of reaction, and Peter wanted, he wanted…

A soft moan escaped his lips.

“I suppose that means I’m doing it right,” Mr. Stark chuckled.

You have no idea, Peter mused sadly.

Just when he was fighting yet another wave of arousal (he was going to jerk off to memories of that massage for _months_ ), Friday’s voice broke the silence.

“There’s a call for you, Sir.”

Mr. Stark slathered his hands with more ointment and proceeded to massage each side of Peter’s foot. He seemed determined to take care of every inch of that unlucky foot.

“Who is it?”

“She says that she met you at a gala, and that she wore a red dress that night.”

Mr. Stark tsked. “What have I told you about those women calling?”

“She’s been pretty insistent, Sir. She says it’s about that work in chemistry you two talked about.”

“We didn’t exactly talk much,” Tony sneered.

Peter felt the urge to break something; it caused his whole body to shake.

“Don’t you want to _talk_ to her?” he said in a barely controlled voice, that still made it clear that ‘talk’ wasn’t the word he would have used.

Mr. Stark’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Before Peter could incriminate himself further, Friday announced the woman had hung up.

“Should I call her back?” the AI asked.

“Nah.”

“Why not?” Peter asked. Apparently, his brain-to-mouth filter was inexistent tonight. “I mean…” He couldn’t very well say that he’d seen them.

Mr. Stark interpreted his hesitation very liberally.

“Are you going all jealous on me, kid?”

“I’m not-”

Mr. Stark patted his calf. “It’s perfectly all right to be bisexual. She liked you, too. Told me as much. You want me to call her back for you?”

Not trusting himself with words just yet, Peter shook his head. Confusion was plain on Mr. Stark’s face now.

“You don’t want to see her again?”

“I don’t-”

“… like her? She’s a pretty dominant woman, I will grant you that.”

Mr. Stark was so far off the mark that Peter started to relax. “You can call her whenever you want,” he said in what he hoped was an offhand manner.

“Why do I have the feeling that you don’t approve of her, somehow?” Mr. Stark replied just as casually.

Peter opened his mouth, closed it again; one of Mr. Stark’s hands had moved up his calf, pulling up the pant leg to expose more skin, more Peter. His hand felt deliciously hot as it slid up and down the few inches above his ankle, firm yet gentle. Peter thought about throwing his head back and begging for Mr. Stark to please touch him higher, to please put an end to his daily agony. It would be so easy to kiss him. So _good_ to finally give in and suck him off. How often had he dreamt of ‘getting a taste’, of stuffing his mouth full of _Tony’s_ cock, and worship him until the older man's control snapped and he fucked his mouth in earnest, moaning his name at every trust, _Peter, oh fuck, so good for me, god, I love-_

The fantasy broke in a million pieces as Peter’s mind veered abruptly in the annoying memory sphere of Mr. Stark making out with the red-haired chemist at the gala, and probably countless others, before and after that.

The soft noise of Mr. Stark’s sighing brought him back to the present.

“Thank you for letting me… help you. If it helps.”

“It does,” Peter assured him. “Thank _you_.”

Mr. Stark seemed to light up from the inside as Peter smiled at him. “I really didn’t feel like going back to sleep after that nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you want to talk about yours?”

That was a defense mechanism Peter knew only too well. “I dreamt you were dead,” he whispered.

Mr. Stark’s fingers dug hard into the flesh of his leg. Shock was written all over his face. “What are the fucking odds, really-”

“What is it?”

“I had a similar dream,” Mr. Stark explained, still unaware of his grip, “except that in mine, you were the one to die. I couldn't- couldn't go back to sleep afterwards.”

For a moment, all the air in the room seemed to vanish, and everything else as well, except for Mr. Stark and himself. Peter leaned into the other man ever so slightly, drinking in the fascination etched on that handsome face, wishing with every last fiber of his body that he could cup that jaw, and kiss those lips parted because of what _he_ ’d said.

Of course someone had to interrupt them.

“What is he doing him?!” Peter snarled, almost kicking Mr. Stark in the chest as he climbed off the sofa and stood to face Rogers. “You let him sleep here?”

“Chill out, kid. It’s fine.”

“It’s certainly _not_ fine! How can you-” He pointed an accusing finger at Rogers. “He tried to-”

Rogers lifted both hands slowly. “I’m not here to harm either of you, or anyone else for that matter, Spiderman.”

“I’m not interested in your apologies.”

“Kid, I really don’t need a fight on my hands right now.”

Right. The nightmare. About his death. Peter retreated to the couch, but kept his body angled so that Rogers would still have to go through him to touch Mr. Stark.

A hand squeezed his side. “I can defend myself, you know.”

“And I can take care of myself, too.”

“I believe you can both defend yourselves, and I didn’t mean to intrude but-”

“You are intruding-” Peter didn’t get to finish that thought, because Mr. Stark was standing _in front of him,_ between Rogers and him, and _he had a hand clasped over his mouth_.

For a few seconds, all Peter could think of was how he would enjoy licking that palm, sucking every digit in his mouth until they were all wet and shiny. His cock swelled in interest. When Mr. Stark asked Rogers what was so urgent that he had to be told at four thirty in the morning, he was already half-hard.

“We’ve got a lead on Doom.”

“Define ‘we’ and ‘lead’.”

Rogers proceeded to explain that Widow had spotted one of the super soldiers just five minutes ago, and Barton had joined her in the hunt. They were asking for Tony’s aerial help.

“Come along,” Mr. Stark told Rogers, letting go of Peter’s mouth to call his suit. “You could be useful.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Peter made to leave the room; Mr. Stark grabbed his shoulder. “You don’t think you’re coming with us, do you?”

“But I-”

His expression at odds with the strength of his grip, Mr. Stark leaned into him. His lips brushed his ear. Once.

Peter's knees threatened to give.

“I know you don’t trust him, and I also know that you’re a good fighter, but trust me, Peter: I swear I will find a way to end him for all he did, and tried to do to you.”

Peter couldn’t speak. Mr. Stark hadn’t said it, but both of them knew that Peter might freeze at a crucial moment. He _was_ afraid of Doom, of the hold his cruelty had on him. Back in that… cave, he’d been forced into submission not because of Doom’s electricity and sheer physical strength, but because he'd panicked.

He'd been afraid to die in that place. To be raped. To be tainted for the one man who could have him body and soul, if only he _looked_ at him.

He truly wouldn’t be any help, and Mr. Stark knew it, but he was also tactful enough not to say it in so many words.

_I swear I will find a way to end him for all he did, and tried to do to you._

“Ok,” he choked out, hands balling to fists at his sides. “I’ll stay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Stark whispered, and then ran a thumb along his jaw.

Peter bit down his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Mr. Stark had been more tactile than usual lately, but only out of a misguided sense of responsibility. He didn’t mean those words, _good boy,_ in that sense. He didn't touch him because he needed the contact not to go mad. He didn’t like Peter in the way Peter liked him.

He didn't love him.

Peter closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Right now, he just needed something, anything, to balance the violent desire gnawing at him. He was withering inside, the love he held for Mr. Stark, for _Tony,_ too strong to contain in his presence, too pure to pass off as mere friendship. A single tear trickled down his cheek.

Still, he had to hide it. Man up. If Mr. Stark looked at him in disgust or dismay... He couldn't bear it. “Be careful, please.”

“I’ll be back before breakfast,” Mr. Stark promised in the suit’s voice, so unlike his own, so artificial. “You think you could make pancakes?”

“Everything for you, Mr. Stark.”

The older man was gone when Peter spoke those words, but Rogers, it seemed, had lingered behind. Peter’s lips thinned to a grim line.

“If you let him get hurt, I swear to god-”

“I will take care of him.” Rogers adjusted his shield on his back. “Don’t worry.”

Peter ran to the tall window and watched the Iron Man suit fly off into the breaking dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Tony... He really does make the worst innuendos even without meaning to ^^'


	11. The Christmas Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin, plus the Captain speaks to Peter and Tony separately about _something_ that concerns them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, thank you for your patience and those lovely comments <3

The Christmas party at the Avengers Headquarters was tonight, but Peter couldn’t seem to muster the willpower to be happy. Naturally, he’d spent the day smiling at everyone; at May, while they’d prepared breakfast together, and exchanged gifts over the pancakes Peter had first learnt to make two months ago; at Ned, on Skype, a little before twelve; at Michelle, a little later, who’d told him in no uncertain terms that she would figure out his secret eventually (Peter had shuddered in fear). He’d also managed to inject some happiness into his voice when he’d picked up his phone not thirty minutes ago.

“Yes, I’m still coming, Mr. Stark. I told you so like, yesterday. And the day before, too.”

“I know you don’t like _him_ , kid, which is why I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t chicken up at the last moment. I want you there, you know that.”

Peter had punched his pillow and stifled an inappropriate moan. If Mr. Stark didn’t keep saying things like that…

“So, kid, still sure you don’t want to bring a date for the party? You can bring anyone, kid, really, and I mean _anyone_. And if Barton makes a stupid joke-”

“It’s not that, Mr. Stark.”

“Then what it is?” Mr. Stark had sounded genuinely confused.

“I just don’t feel like it.” Not want Mr. Stark to ask any more questions, he’d turned the tables on him. “What about you, Mr. Stark?” Keeping his tone light hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed somehow.

“Me?” That confusion, again. “Just want to spend Christmas with my family, kid.”

“And yet you’ve invited _him_.”

“Kid-”

"But what if the soldiers planned to attack us because they were following him and-"

" _Peter_. We’re going to find Doom; I myself am checking for him every single day, and it’s Friday’s number one priority, too. That monster is going to be punished, and imprisoned for the rest of his pathetic life. Don’t worry, ok? I’ve got you."

A sharp intensity had seeped into Mr. Stark’s voice, which had caused a shiver to run up Peter’s spine. 

“I’m not worried about him,” he’d whispered in turn.

Mr. Stark’s had made a strangled noise of frustration. “I will see you soon, kid, ok? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do-”

“- and nothing you would do either, yeah, I know.”

They’d hung up at the same time.

Peter lay back into his bed with a groan. He’d been replaying this conversation in his head (and tortured himself with various fantasies) for the last hour, and as result only had maybe twenty minutes left before he was due to leave. A headache was building beneath his temples. He didn’t know what to wear, and wasn’t sure he should even try to make an impression. After all, it wasn’t like Mr. Stark noticed him in that way. The man just felt responsible for a younger friend. For a member of his _family_. It was better than nothing, Peter told himself.

Eventually, he convinced his body to get back to a vertical position and yanked the door of his wardrobe open. Fumbling through whatever few clothes he owned, he selected a tight black shirt, his unique pair of black leather jeans, which were also very form fitting, and put the ensemble on. His underwear ended up on his unmade bed, along with the one t-shirt he’d trusted himself to steal from Mr. Stark.

Could his life get any more pathetic? The answer was no, but it was Christmas, and Peter had no intention to make Mr. Stark worry about him.

He tested his smile in the mirror; close enough.

He sat down to put on his socks. Of course, he couldn’t help the flood of gentle (and highly arousing) memories of Mr. Stark’s hands on his ankle, massaging muscles and tendons and basically setting his skin on the most delicious kind of fire. The caress of the cotton felt like a rash compared to the sublime drawings Mr. Stark’s calloused fingers had carved into his skin. Peter very pointedly didn’t think about how it would feel to have a _tattoo_ on his ankle, or on any other part of his body for that matter, proclaiming the older man’s claim on him: _Propriety of Mr. Stark,_ or something along those lines.

Clean black shoes were the final touch to his ensemble. Staring at the sixteen-year-old youth in the mirror hanging on his wall, Peter smiled sadly at his reflection. He was nowhere close as handsome as Mr. Stark. He was too tall, too thin, and so young; too young to be noticed by the man he loved. He checked his smile again.

There was nothing he could do now but try and enjoy himself for the evening.

*

Mr. Stark had obviously gone out of his way for both the decoration and the food. Peter entered the main room right behind Banner, who’d also looked about the huge hall with interest.  

“I’d recommend you don’t drink alcohol, but I remember being sixteen,” Banner said, sipping at his tea, which smelled like gingerbread and was covered by a layer of teeny-tiny radioactive green marshmallows. “Just… try to pace yourself, I suppose. Don’t drink as much as Tony, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I know about that grey zone.”

Banner shot him a questioning look, but Peter just shrugged, with what felt like a genuine smile blooming on his face. He treasured what little ‘private’ references he shared with Mr. Stark.  

The next two persons he came across were Widow and Ms. Potts. He liked both women very much, because they were quite formidable in their respective domains, and treated him like a young man instead of a teenager in need of directions. Still, he didn’t exchange more than a few words with either of them, because Widow was too observant and might use one of her famous interrogation technics on him out of curiosity, and Ms. Potts had once been a relationship with Mr. Stark. The older man had been so much on Peter’s mind today (for example, when Peter had jerked off first thing in the morning to the thought of his mouth being used and his enthusiasm praised) that he just couldn’t look at the businesswoman in the eye. Besides, Ms. Potts was so pretty in that ankle-long blue dress, that again he couldn’t help but feel… inferior. Undeserving.

He squared his shoulders, addressed one last smile to Ms. Potts, and then waved at Barton. Mr. Stark was nowhere to be seen, but then he tended to arrive fashionably late, especially to his own events. Hearing his stomach growling, Peter made a beeline for the lavish buffet table with the cookies. And because he didn’t want to disappoint Dr. Banner, and more importantly, Mr. Stark, he tried some of the hot chocolate first. The little marshmallows would do nicely on top, he supposed. 

Just as he reached for the bowl of colorful soft bits, Rogers materialized at his side.

“Hi, Peter.”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to use my first name.”

“Parker, then. Or would you prefer Spiderman?”

“I’d prefer if you went away.”

The Captain sighed and picked one of the biscuits, a green one in the shape of a reindeer with a fluorescent nose that was apparently edible. Peter sprinkled red and gold marshmallows on top of his beverage, because he wouldn’t let Rogers spoil his fun, and then beat a hasty retreat to one of the couches at least twenty meters from there.

Rogers thought it wise to follow him. Of course, he was dressed to the nines in a dark blue suit, and Peter had to fight the urge to flatten the lapels of his cheap jacket.

“We are not enemies, Pet- Parker.”

“Neither are we friends.” It was as much a concession as he was willing to make. He tasted his hot chocolate; divine. He felt a surge of heat as he noticed the color of his marshmallows and wanted to slap himself. Hopefully, no one would notice. “Since you can’t possibly be there to ask for my forgiveness,” he added quickly, “considering that I’ve already said you wouldn’t get it, tell me what you want and let’s get this over with. Not that I plan on giving you what you want.” He took another sip. The anger Rogers’ presence had wakened into him seemed to find an echo in every hot mouthful of the hot beverage.

“You’re very loyal to him, aren’t you?”

Peter’s head snapped up. “What of it?”

“Nothing.” Rogers had the most peculiar expression on his face, a mixture between perplexity, embarrassment, disapproval and eagerness. Peter didn’t care for it. “I merely find it an admirable trait. But I’m not here to hurt anyone, Pet- Parker. That’s still true. I know I’ve done wrong in the past, but-”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That’s fine.”

Had the Captain grown a brain in the last couple of weeks? Peter shrugged. He wanted the man gone. From the continent, if possible. And he wanted Mr. Stark to be less late than usual, even if it meant more time being torn apart from the inside.

Rogers clasped his hands in his lap. “I just wanted you to know that we are all doing the best we can to track down Doom and the…” He swallowed hard, and Peter could hear the motion of his Adam’s apple clearly. “The super-soldiers he’s using.”

Peter made a dismissive gesture and licked the bit of marshmallow stuck on his bottom lip into his mouth. “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Because you can go now. I get it. You’re here to help.”

Rogers leaned towards him; not enough to enter his personal space, but enough for all the hair on Peter’s body to stand on hand. Peter set his mug down on a glass table and angled his body towards the soldier, annoyance plain on his face.

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s not my business,” Rogers said, hesitation plain in his tone, “but… I don’t think you should… get your hopes up.”

Peter was glad his hands were empty, or he would have dropped the mug. He would have felt less shocked if Rogers had punched him in the guts. His voice dropped to a cold, threatening whisper; Peter almost didn’t recognize it.

“You’re right; this is none of your business.”

He made to stand up, but Rogers gripped his wrist. Peter let out a snarl and yanked his arm back.

“I swear I’m not trying to be patronizing. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt, ok?”

“Like you didn’t want to see _him_ hurt?!” Peter asked in disbelief. “Leave me alone, Rogers. Leave _us_ alone.”

“You don’t understand-”

Peter’s smile turned ugly; how was it that this man always seemed to make him lose his self-control? He felt the rage burning right under the surface, boiling in his veins, urging him to strike.

He balled his fists at his sides.

“I won’t have you interfere in my life or in his, you hear me? What I do doesn’t concern you, and if you believe you can try and hurt me out of some perverse need to make everybody miserable like you, because you couldn’t protect the one you loved and-”

Rogers was fast, but Peter was faster. Before the fight could really turn physical, though, Widow stepped in between them. Of course, Peter had not heard her approach.

The rage in Rogers’ eyes vanish, and only pain remained. “I… I apologize.”

Peter refused to say anything, and after a moment of strained silence, Rogers turned on his heels and left the hall.

“Don’t let Stark see you like that,” Widow said simply.

Her expression, of course, was unreadable. Peter struggled to regain his composure. His headache from earlier was coming back with a vengeance.

“Like what?”

“Poised for a fight.” Widow’s eyes gleamed with something Peter can’t quite decipher. “Blood hunting.”

Peter shivered violently. It was such a Widow thing to say.

“I’m just-”

“I know,” Widow cut him, voice like a scalpel. “But tonight is not about fighting. Besides, you’re investing way too much energy into your hatred for him.”

“I can’t help it,” Peter whispered, and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

Fortunately, Widow just nodded and handed him a glass, seemingly out of nowhere. “It’s Christmas, Parker: you should celebrate.”

It was vodka, but sweeter than Peter remembered. He had no idea what face he made at Widow, but she laughed.

“I added some chocolate syrup to it. It’s Stark’s vodka, after all.”

Peter relaxed progressively. For a while, he played darts with Barton (and lost every single game), discussed chemistry with Banner (over a mug of vodka/hot chocolate), and even called back Ned to give him some details about the party.

When Mr. Stark finally make an entrance, Peter’s jaw dropped. Mr. Stark was always handsome, be it in sweatpants or still wet from a shower (that familiar guilt gnawed at him again, fought down the arousal), but Peter had always had a, well, suit-kink where the man’s concerned. Tonight, Mr. Stark was wearing black dress pants, a white shirt with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there was even a tie at his neck, of a dark red that drew the eye to the slightly lighter red lines on the sides of his pants. And those pants were tight.   

But it was neither the pants nor the bare neck that truly caused Peter’s pulse to skyrocket; it was the fact that Mr. Stark’s eyes settled on him first, and that a smile instantly graced his lips.

Suddenly, Peter’s regretting his own choice in pants. He tried to will his flush and his erection away as Mr. Stark walked towards him. God, his gait… Everything was perfect about this man. _Everything_.

Peter scrambled to his feet.

“H-Hi, Mr. Stark.” He mentally slapped himself for stuttering (must be the chocolate vodka) and tried over. “Hey, you’re late.”

If he could bury himself by that point, he would, but Mr. Stark only looked at him fondly. Peter’s heart went on bouncing around his ribcage.

“And I see that you’re already on the strong stuff? Is my hot chocolate not up to your standards?”

“Just sampling the good stuff.” Peter tried for casual and wondered if he pulled it off; at least, Mr. Stark was still smiling. “But I’m pacing myself, don’t worry.” I’m fine, I will be. I love you. “I don’t plan on getting hungover.”

They walked together to the nearest buffet table, where Mr. Stark get himself a brownie. Peter watched his lips curve around the creamy topping and feel the blush return. At least, he could pretend it was the alcohol. Which he did.

“How was school this week?” Mr. Stark inquired, not pressing the issue of Peter’s flushed face. “Learnt anything interesting?”

“You know perfectly well that whatever interesting things I learn are in your lab, Mr. Stark. Like that article about folding universes you shared with me…” Peter took on a dreamy expression. The city outside really was beautiful, from this far up. It reminded him of a strangely distorted Christmas Tree. The celebration of life. He picked a brownie himself and let out an approving moan of pleasure.

“You’re one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet,” Mr. Stark said. “I know we don’t always agree-”

Peter snorted and turned back to look at him. It was probably just his imagination, but he could have sworn that Mr. Stark’s eyes strained on his mouth for at least a second and a half. He licked his fingers clean, but to his disappointment, the older man chose that moment to adjust his tie.

“- but,” Mr. Stark went on, a smile tugging at the corner of those beautiful lips, “your wits are something to behold, kid.”

“What about my looks?” Peter replied almost smoothly, intoxicated enough by now to speak the first thing that went through his mind. His face warmed a bit. “You once said that they matched my intellect.” Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking… But he couldn’t. “Of course, I could never be as _cool_ and as…” He made a vague gesture with his glass. “… as fascinating as you, Mr. Stark.”

“Kid…”  Mr. Stark sighed. A strand of hair had fallen between his eyes, and Peter had to grasp his drink with more strength not to reach out and brush it away. He wanted to cup Mr. Stark’s jaw and bring their lips together, to kiss him until he stopped breathing, and beyond that, too. He wanted to drop to his knees as well, but they weren’t alone, and even in his state, Peter knew better than to bring about his demise. He couldn’t bear to lose their friendship.

“Yes?”

Mr. Stark’s eyes were darker than usual, as if the night inhabited his body, and all the stars shone through his tentative smile. “You’re much better than I am.”

“That’s not-”

The glass broke in Peter’s fingers. Only Widow turned at the noise, and Mr. Stark immediately fell to his knees to check on his hand. It was bloody, little shards of glass trapped in his palm. Nimble fingers soothed away the pain, taking out those shards one by one, and then tenderly trapping his hand between his own. Someone rushed to them and handed Mr. Stark a bandage and alcohol, but Peter had only eyes and ears for Mr. Stark, who was looking up at him with a strange mixture of pain, regret and surprise.

Why pain, and why regret? Peter opened his mouth to ask, but nothing came out.

“You’re going to be fine, kid.”

His hand was on fire. His whole being was on fire. Peter’s smile was wobbly and liquid, just like the alcohol staining his fingers. If their roles had been reversed, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to keep himself from licking those fingers clean. He could almost taste the copper of blood and the pang of scotch on his tongue. In a way, he was in a perpetual state of intoxication.

“I think I should go to bed,” he said, half to himself.

“Let me fix that first for you, ok?” Mr. Stark grip tightened on him, but the pain barely registered. “You’re sure I can’t do something for you? We’ve still got plenty of sweets, and we could-”

I could love you, Peter thought. If you’d let me, I would try and make all that pain in your soul go away.

“It’s fine, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark finished wrapping the white gauze around his palm. Then he helped Peter stand up. Peter needed the help (the dizziness was increasing), but more than that, he needed _him_.

“Let me at least get you to your room for the night, ok?” Mr. Stark’s lips brushed his ear, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut. It was maddening. Wonderful.

So painful.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I remember where the guest quarters are.”

“I don’t want you to facepalm on the way.”

“Friday wouldn’t let me,” Peter mumbled, thinking: Of course you don’t want me.

“Yeah, I know, but she’s not exactly corporeal. Come on, kid, let’s get you in bed.”

*

At two in the morning, Peter woke up so hard he only needed to pull at his cock twice to come all over himself, muffling Mr. Stark’s name in his pillow. Not wasting any time catching his breath, he rolled onto his belly, lifted his ass and rubbed a knuckle over his rim almost frantically. In his dream, Mr. Stark had been sitting on the chair in the far corner, pants down to his knees, one hand on his cock, stroking himself as he watched Peter, eyes hungry and heavy-lidded. Not once had he touched him, but he’d spoken to him, told him what to do and how to do it. Peter had been on his knees for him, spreading his ass cheeks, fingering himself to a rhythm chosen by Mr. Stark. Their only contact had been when Mr. Stark had come to stand behind him and, voice rough and lustful as he praised him, painted Peter’s lower back and buttocks in stripes of hot cum.

Peter had just been begging to lick Mr. Stark’s cock clean when he’d woken up.

“Friday?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“Is someone still up?”

“Only Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers.”

Peter, who’d been on his way to the adjoining bathroom, paused dead in his tracks.

“What are they doing?”

“Talking.”

“Is Mr. Stark all right?”

“Yes, Peter, he’s fine.”

Peter wondered how far he could push it and decided that it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Could you tell me what they’re talking about?”

There was a slight pause.

“I believe I can make an exception in this case.”

“An exception?” Peter was all ears.

“They are talking about you.”

“Where?”

Friday told him. Peter put on his pants, not bothering with a shirt, and left the room in a rush. It didn’t occur to him until later that he could have asked Friday to play the conversation for him, but then perhaps Mr. Stark was the only one with that privilege.

With his heightened senses, he could stop in the dark and listen to the two men from afar, but the need to _see_ Mr. Stark won over caution.

He flattened himself to the wall and risked a look around the corner.

Mr. Stark had his back to the kitchen counter and his arms crossed. He’d lost his tie, and his hair was in a bit of disarray. He didn’t look pissed, though, only amused, and a little stiff. Rogers’s demeanour, in contrast, spoke of worry and perplexity.

“… just wondering why he is so aggressive towards me?

Mr. Stark chuckled. “I think he’s a tad protective of me.”

“ _Protective_?” Peter didn’t like that judgmental tone, and even less the words that followed. “I don’t think it’s about protection, Stark.”

“Please.” Mr. Stark turned around to pour himself a glass of something golden and pressed the button for ice on the fridge. “What else could it be?”

“Love.”

Peter gasped; Mr. Stark frowned at his glass as small cubes of ice rolled over the rim and shattered on the ground. The Captain’s hand brushed Mr. Stark’s aside, releasing the other man’s hold on the button. Ice stopped falling, but Peter could have sworn it was now gathering in his belly instead, turning his veins to cold shards. He hugged himself and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

Please. No, please, no, no, no, no-

“Stark. I don't think it's just a crush."

"The kid looks up to me, Rogers. Have you forgotten what hero worship is?" But Mr. Stark, Peter couldn’t help but notice, looked a bit nervous. Oh, god.

“Seriously, Stark, this isn’t-”

“Could you stop talking for a goddamn minute? Actually, I’m gonna head to the lab. A monster to find and burn to the ground. It’s rush hour for my brain anyway, I need coffee, and you need to sleep. I hope you’re grateful for the accommodations, by the way.”

“Stark-”

“Coffee’s calling!”

Peter wanted to weep. He also wanted to beat the shit out of Rogers. And then-

And then he sagged and dropped to his knees, heart hammering in his chest. Just as Mr. Stark had left the room, Peter had caught a glimpse of his face one last time. Mr. Stark didn’t look disgusted, or amused.

He looked nervous. Nervous and… torn _._

Peter hid his face into his hands, trembling. He refused to feel hope, refused to hurt himself even more, but all he could do was hug himself.

Mr. Stark had not denied it. Mr. Stark had denied _nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn (*clears throat*) should start in the next chapter.


	12. How I Wished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Peter gets to show Mr. Stark just how much he wants him (and who cares if it's an accident)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really needed that sex scene. Also, you guys are very lucky I got that dental surgery yesterday, or else I would have gone to work that evening, and there would have been no update :P Now please rejoice with me as Peter *finally* gets to show Tony just how much he wants him!  
> And let me thank you SO MUCH for your support thorough this story <3

Peter woke up to the sound of a fight outside. Reflexes kicking in, he struggled to sit… and promptly flopped onto his back with a pained groan. Right. The fight was only taking place inside his head, with his skull seemingly stretching and contracting in time with his heartbeats. Lying down was good. Ignoring the headache (the hangover, he corrected himself with a grimace) was impossible, but lying down made it bearable. He could only blame himself for his own stupidity…

… which was even greater than he thought, when his memories from last night resurfaced.

With a blush that quickly spread to his throat, he recalled how Mr. Stark had looked up at him in concern, his calloused hands cradling Peter’s. How Mr. Stark had taken care of his injury, taken care of _him_. The older man was always looking out for him.

And now he knew about Peter’s crush, thanks to Steve fucking Rogers. His reaction had been better than Peter had expected, but he’d never said that he, too, had a crush on a certain sixteen-year-old who sometimes slept over.

It was probably all a product of his imagination anyway. What if he’d dreamt that conversation in the kitchen? He didn’t dare check in with Friday. If it’d been a dream, at least he wouldn’t have to face Mr. Stark’s disappointment. Or disapproval.

Grateful for that small mercy, he squirmed under the sheets, trying to find the most comfortable position to get back to sleep. The brush of one hand between his legs, however, sent that resolution right through the window.

Burying a moan into the pillow, he rolled onto his belly once more and palmed at his half-hard cock. In less than ten seconds, he was fully erect. Grinding his hips into the mattress, he squeezed the base of his cock as his other hand shot back to fondle his balls. Ah, the perks of youth: to come twice in less than ten minutes, and if he played it right, he could postpone that second orgasm until it was _really_ worth it.

He moaned in anticipation and closed his eyes. What was Mr. Stark doing now? Was he still asleep? Dreaming? Peter bit down his lip as that handsome face flashed beneath his eyelids. The brown eyes were piercing, searching, and the lips curved into that perfect smile that always caused Peter’s heart to palpitate.

Hand speeding up over his shaft, he evoked the rest of Mr. Stark, starting with those broad shoulders, the taut chest and stomach he didn’t need to touch to know that it would be firm and- fuck. He imagined himself on his knees, mouthing at the hot tanned skin, kissing it reverently as his hands trailed down those muscled thighs, and up, to squeeze-

God, he felt so hot already. Mr. Stark could never know, of course, but the frequency at which Peter wanted to go on his knees for him, and try his hand (or more accurately, his mouth) at oral sex was increasingly embarrassing. His hips jerked as the first hint of precum beaded at the tip of his cock. Surely he wouldn’t need to touch himself to climax, if Tony, the Mr. Stark of his fantasies (a man who didn’t have any qualms shoving his cock down his _protégé_ ’s throat and praising him for his enthusiasm) asked for his mouth.

His belly tightened. Heat flashed in delicious fireworks all over his body, turning the skin flush with need. He pushed himself on his elbows and knees and rutted harder into the mattress, muffling keens of rapture at the double friction of hand and sheets. 

Intent on making it last, he banished the picture of _Tony’s_ cock pressed to his lips for a more innocent fantasy: the two of them on the roof of the Avengers headquarters at night. Peter would be sitting with his back to Tony’s chest, those strong arms wrapped around him like a blanket. Already he could imagine the coarse, sensual caress of that goatee against the tender skin of his neck. Tony would lean back a bit to massage his shoulders, telling him how much the time they spent together meant to him, how he wanted more of it, more of Peter.

Unbidden, the vivid picture of Tony in full Iron Man gear bending him in half and fucking him hard on that same rooftop inserted itself between two scenes of that chaste fantasy of stargazing.

Peter banished it promptly. Not yet, not until-

The scene under the night sky changed again, this time for the familiar setting of the main living room in the headquarters. Tony would be standing by the window, a glass of scotch in one hand, the other stroking his erect cock.

_“What can I do for you, kid?” A smile. “Tell me what would make you happy.”_

Peter arched on the bed, temples pounding with desire. He would have all the time in the world to watch Tony as he took care of himself. Watch the muscles rippling in his arms and back, watch his jaw tighten as the pleasure became too strong for the confinement of silence. Peter licked his lips, picturing his tongue over that tanned skin, licking at droplets of sweat. Begging for a touch of his own.

“Please, please…”

He was begging now, hand pulling hard at his cock. He would come soon, he knew he would. There was no stopping now, not with that smile gracing his thoughts, those eyes dark with desire, and the hand reaching for him… He should feel guilty, really, for having spied on Tony (no, _Mr. Stark_ ) that day, but he’d only meant to check on him; hadn’t, _couldn’t_ have expected to see him almost naked, oblivious to any trespasser…

“’morning, kid.”

Peter almost jumped out of his skin.

“Mr. Stark?” he squealed, the pitch high, panicked. Too shocked to think about all the useful things he should do, like letting go of his cock and covering himself up, he merely sank back in the mattress and turned to his side.

Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Right. _Now_ he remembered the rest the night. A couple of hours after that ‘dream’ of Mr. Stark and Rogers’ arguing in the kitchen, the former had shown up into his room. Peter wasn’t sure why, because the older man had been mumbling something about a nightmare (but whose?) He’d started to protest Mr. Stark sleeping on the floor, even on that his big portable mattress he’d brought in with him, but before he could finish his monologue, Mr. Stark had installed everything and promptly passed out.

Then he caught Mr. Stark’s very wide eyes staring at him, and every thought that wasn’t about his current… position, vanished.

He became acutely aware of his nakedness, and worse, of the dried cum on his chest.

Of how he'd just been jerking off with Mr. Stark in the room.

_Whimpering his name._

Shame must be written in bold letters all over his face.

“Slept well, kid?"

Peter could hardly believe it as Mr. Stark simply averted his eyes and sat up in his makeshift bed, stretching with a groan. The t-shirt he’d put on to go to sleep rode up a few inches, exposing a flat, hard belly that did nothing to soften his throbbing cock. 

Whether it was because a noise betrayed him or Mr. Stark simply couldn't simply ignore the elephant in the room (or in that case, a sixteen-year-old masturbating a few feet away), Peter felt those too-knowing eyes on him again.

He looked right back at the older man, because he could, and because of the thrill. Mr. Stark’s eyes weren’t so wide anymore, but his jaw was slack, and his hands limp at his sides.

And then he rose to his feet, all of his attention on Peter’s face, and flashed him a tight smile.

“Oh, but don’t stop on my account, sweetheart.”

Peter’s breath hitched; here was that nervous and torn look again, the one from the kitchen last night… if it had been real. Mr. Stark looked as if he wanted to flee (he already had his back to Peter), but something seemed to keep him from leaving the room entirely. Tension could be read in the lines of his shoulders, in his neck (god, how Peter wished he could kiss it, lick at the pulse he really wanted to taste right now, fluttering as frantically as his own).

Peter hid his face into one hand, trembling as he pulled harder at his cock. He refused to feel hope, refused to hurt himself even more, but all he could do was whimper pathetically as that hope took firmer roots in his chest and expanded until he could taste it in his throat, bitter-sweet…

“I have to go back to work anyway. A villain to find. A certain someone to avenge.” A wince, a quick look to the door, then back at Peter, then very quickly back at the door. “So, you know, take your time waking up, and I guess I’ll see you whenever you-”

“Please.” Peter bit down his lip hard enough to draw blood. He hadn’t meant for all this to escalate, or to put Mr. Stark in a tight spot; he had no right to demand anything of that man beyond what he was willing to give, but now that they were both aware of a certain issue, how could he just pretend that this didn’t happen? That this wasn’t happening, here, right now?

Was that how it felt, to sell your soul to the Devil? He ached so fiercely. “Can you- Can you just…”

Touch me, he thought, desperately trying not to come all over himself as Mr. Stark’s eyes, unexpectedly (gloriously) traveled down his body, taking in every inch of naked skin. Suck me. Fuck me. Let me swallow you whole, and spread you open so tenderly, you won’t ever want anyone else taking care of you, protecting you. But even as he thought the words, he knew they wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Mr. Stark wasn’t like that.

And this was real. Possibly the only chance Peter would ever get.

“Stay,” he pleaded, voice hoarse with despair and desire. “I want you… to s-stay. Please. Just-.”

“I really should go.”

There was panic on Mr. Stark’s face, but also sizzling flash of desire, that Peter only caught because he studied every minute shift with all the attention he wasn’t paying to his cock. Desire was good, he told himself. Even if determination replaced it. Because that desire came back, raw and almost violent with how Mr. Stark seemed to fight it. Desire won in the end, causing Mr. Stark's pupils to dilate and his lips to part in stunned silence. His tongue darted out for a quick lick, almost too fast, but Peter saw it, and felt Mr. Stark's desire crash into him like the storm it was.

A storm that he, Peter, had caused all on his own.

His hand sped up on his cock. In the silence that was growing thicker and thicker, the sound of his frantic heartbeat was all he could hear. Well... this, and Mr. Stark’s own frantic heart.

Peter’s heart soared as a Mr. Stark's cheeks turned pink. _He'_ d caused that.  _He_ was desired by the man he'd spent years desiring. The Tony he met in his dreams and the Mr. Stark who felt responsible for him, his friend, _were the same man._

Let him stay, he prayed fervently, thumbing his slit and biting off a moan. Let him stay, just a little while longer.

“Peter- Kid. I-”

Embracing the shame coursing through his veins, Peter rolled onto his back and arched it in the most uncomfortable (but impressive) bow he could manage, drawing Mr. Stark’s dark eyes to the center show: his trembling hand racing on his erect cock. He didn’t try and suppress his mewls and moans anymore, hoping beyond reason that they would draw Mr. Stark closer, would-

Mr. Stark shook his head, one hand already on the doorknob. “I am not touching you,” he warned.

Peter paused for a second. Had he spoken aloud? And then his mind caught up with Mr. Stark’s words.

Not ‘I can’t’ or ‘I don’t want to’. Words were important.

Peter let go of his cock and took what he hoped was a languid pose, sprawled on one side, one elbow propped to support his head, his free hand gingerly fanned over one hip. He knew it looked fake, and that he was probably the very picture of embarrassment, but he couldn’t back down now.

This was just another fight. A chance he would forever regret not to take.

“Just…” He gulped. His whole face felt hot, too hot. Part of him wanted to die; the other part, stronger, wanted to proclaim his undying love and beg for a taste of him.

He compromised. “Will you… watch?”

Please, please, please…

Mr. Stark didn’t reply, but at least he stopped trying to get out of the room. Reckoning he had very little time, Peter got back to work. For a while, the only sounds breaking the silence where the friction of his hand on his cock, and the little gasps that tumbled from his lips. He feasted on the sight of Mr. Stark’s back as he jerked off without his unusual finesse, too busy burning that picture into his mind to care much about his own release. He would get there anyway.

“Is it… good?” Mr. Stark’s voice sounded strained.

“ _Yes_.” He wasn’t even trying to be seductive anymore; his body was merely following its own lead, slowly coaxed into bliss by that deep baritone, so close, closer than ever before, but not enough, not quite. But he didn’t beg for more. He just… waited for that voice to take over the silence again.

 “Good. That’s- That’s. Fuck it.”

Mr. Stark turned around and, in less than three steps, was standing by the bed.

“Yes,” Peter cried out, hips jerking towards that voice, towards those hands white-knuckled into stillness. “Thank you, thank you, thank you-”

“How long-” Mr. Stark’s voice was deliciously rough. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more. “How long have you- done that-”

“Thinking of you?” Peter screwed his eyes shut for a moment. "Years.”

“And…” Mr. Stark licked his lower lip.

Peter was gone, he was _so_ done for, but he had to wait, had to make this memorable. So he waited for the rest of that sentence. “A-And?”

Mr. Stark’s nostrils flared. “You always do- Is there anything else- Fuck, I can’t believe I’m asking that-”

Guilt flashed on his face, but it was not strong enough to cover all hints of arousal. Peter thought fast. Anything else… What did he mean by-

Oh. _Oh._ He almost come right here and then but gripped the base of his cock to the point of pain. Wait. Just wait a little more.

“You want to know if I- if I do any-anything else?”

Taking advantage of his (probably very) momentary courage, he shuffled around to lie down with his exposed buttocks at the edge of the bed, facing Mr. Stark, and then proceeded to slowly circle his entrance like he’d seen it done in porn. Even with all the precum, it was still very dry, and slightly uncomfortable. He was dipping the tip of a first finger in when Mr. Stark spoke up.

“It will only be this once, right, Peter?”

He sounded worried. Peter nodded frantically. Of course, they both knew he disagreed, but as Mr. Stark sat down on the bed and caught Peter’s wrist, lifting his hand to suck at two fingers, he would have agreed to pretty much anything.

A violent shiver ran through Peter’s whole body as Mr. Stark released the slick fingers with an obscene pop.

“Then let it be good.” On those words, he caught another finger, and mouthed at it with gusto. Peter couldn’t think anymore and didn’t even care. Obviously, Mr. Stark knew how to use his mouth as well as his fingers. Peter lost himself in the feeling of that tongue swirling between his knuckles, of those beautiful lips wrapping lovingly around every finger, of that tongue licking his palm, teasing at his wrist. He felt the wet heat of saliva down to the tip of his cock, as if Mr. Stark was everywhere, was _everything._

“Here, you’re good to go.” 

I love you.

“That felt- That was...” Amazing.

With a whimper that would have made him wince had he not being so damn turned on, he slowly caressed his entrance, whimpering some more, before sinking his middle finger in, deep, as deep as it would go. Knowing that the digit currently stroking his inner walls was wet from Mr. Stark’s _mouth_ did nothing to calm him down, and he began to thrash on the bed with abandon, fingering himself thoroughly with that one finger. He’d never panted so heavily from having a single digit up his ass before, but with Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, studying him like a hawk, so intense and intend on seeing him pleasure himself, fanned the flames already consuming him. He added a second digit without pausing, only slightly grimacing at the sudden stretch, and lifted his hips some more, fucking himself on those fingers that Mr. Stark had seen fit to lick and suck-

He was truly gone now.  

 “Christ, You’re so-” Mr. Stark’s face was a wonder; fractured into a thousand emotions, all raw and so easy to read, so easy to feel, and to swallow straight up like so many kisses. “You’re so beautiful.” One of his hands shot to Peter's weaker ankle, stroke it almost fiercely.

The memory of another time, and what could have remained an innocent touch, lingered between them.

“ _Ah._ ” Yes, yes, yes… Peter tried to add another finger, but that would make the show he was giving awkward, and if he showed too much pain, Mr. Stark would flee.

“Fuck, this is so-” Mr. Stark’s eyes were darker than sin, and fixed on his face. “… this is so hot. You’re so hot like this, touching yourself, so eager.” He was panting.

And yes, here it was: a bulge in his sweatpants, unmistakable. Mr. Stark was hard for him.

But he didn’t touch himself, didn’t touch Peter above his ankle, just went on telling him how beautiful he was masturbating in that bed.

“… could never have expected… You close?” He looked damn close himself, Peter thought with a rush of desire. “I think you are, aren’t you? Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.”

“Good.” The word was wrenched from his throat. “I’m gonna-” He threw his head back, one thigh spasming. “I-”

Mr. Stark (Tony’s?) hand cupped his jaw, the palm warm and rough and perfect. Peter drowned in the raw hunger reigning there. “ _Look at me, Peter_.”

It was an order; his clue to surrender, at last, to his lifelong suppressed desires.

“Tony!” He came with a shout, spilling himself over his hand and wrist, never looking away from Tony’s, Mr. Stark’s face, enraptured by the awe that mirrored his own. He’d never come so hard, and that was just from sharing Mr. Stark’s space.

They clicked. They just did. They were meant for each other: Spiderman and Ironman, Peter Parker and Tony Stark.

But dreams only ever came true with a price.

“I have to go.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. No, no, no- He pulled himself to a sitting position and wiped his wrist on the sheets, but he wasn’t fast enough, Mr. Stark was already at the door, yanking it open and-

“Tony, w- Mr. Stark, don’t go!”

The door slammed shut, and Peter was alone in the room once more. Alone, embarrassed like hell, insecure to the marrow of his bones.

He felt a single tear trickle down his cheek.

Hadn't Mr. Stark's desire been real? He’d called him sweetheart, Peter thought, tasting salt on his lips. He’d made it plain that at least on some level, what he felt went beyond friendly affection.

But still he’d run, left him behind.

And sometimes, those who left never came back.  

Peter hugged the pillow to his chest, the afterglow of the most powerful orgasm he’d ever experienced now a dull ache that felt suspiciously like grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry but not sorry?


	13. Distance Makes the Heart Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Stark is avoiding him, and Peter is slowly falling to pieces.  
> Until the night one of them gets drunk, and the other comes out of hiding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter basically wrote itself - I'm reaaaaaally glad, because I was dreading it so much I might have postponed it indefinitely.  
> Here you go, my darlings: some necessary angst. Please enjoy (along with a mug of hot chocolate and a teddy bear)!

Alone in his room, Peter hugged the pillow to his chest and tried to calm his heartbeat.

He knew he should sleep. He knew he should try to let go of the yearning and the fear, the anger and the heart-wrenching affection that threatened to overwhelm him, but his mind kept veering into new avenues, dark roads that became darker still the more he attempted to control its final destination.

He was so exhausted. The week following… _it_ had been hell, if hell was a place of loneliness where tears were no more an option to express grief. School vacations couldn’t have taken place at a worst time. Ned was here for him, of course; his friend had extended multiple invitations to his place, even came banging on the apartment’s door more times than Peter cared to count, but in the end, no matter what he did and whom he did it with, he just couldn’t seem to shake off the misery. And he didn’t want others to be miserable because of him. Not May, who was presently at the restaurant with a long-lost friend, enjoying the holidays like she very well should. Not Ned, who was at Michelle for a Star Wars marathon involving caramel popcorn and Lego.

And especially not Mr. Stark, who hadn’t replied to any of his texts.

It had taken courage to send every single one of them. Peter remembered how his hands had shaken when he’d typed every letter, and how his thumb had hovered for what had felt like an eternity over the ‘Send’ button.

_Hi, I just wanted to thank you for the Christmas party. PP_

_For inviting me, I mean. PP_

_I hope you’re having a nice week. PP_

_If you need my help with anything… PP_

He was pathetic, Peter decided, burying his cellphone under his pillow. And spending every single night dreaming of either Doom or _this_ just reinforced his certainty.

Dreaming of the time he’d spent at Doom’s mercy was bad enough. He woke up drenched in sweat, unsure if he was still there in the dark, exposed to the enemy, touched by his greedy hands like the helpless trap he was supposed to be, or if Tony had truly saved him…

… and then really sucked on his fingers and called him _sweetheart,_ in that guest room at the headquarters.

 _Those_ dreams were nightmares as well. Peter woke up always at the worst time (when Mr. Stark left), and always hard as a rock with tears streaming down his face. As soon as he was startled awake by whatever his heightened senses had picked up, he would remember how quick Mr. Stark had left the room, and the lack of answer to his texts. He would always check his phone, always ignore his erection, but those four messages remained without an answer.

There was no phone call either.

But he knew Mr. Stark was fine. He saw him in the news, and received a single text from Widow, with a picture attached. In it, she wore her combat gears and had Rogers in a headlock on the training mats. Banner stood nearby with a pensive look, and a little farther back was Mr. Stark, chin cast down, brow furrowed. Focused on something that wasn’t there.

Focused on something that wasn’t Peter.

Peter felt a first tear hit the pillow and bit down his lower lip hard enough to taste blood.

*

The first day of school following that week of self-imposed solitude was another kind of hell entirely.

“You look like half of the people you know have died,” Michelle remarked during their midday meal, cutting in Ned’s enthusiastic babbling about the new Star Wars movie.

Peter went on staring at his sandwich. He knew he should eat. Superheroes couldn’t afford to go hungry. Superheroes who were tracked down by a bunch of super soldiers _and_ Doom could afford it even less. It didn’t matter that he didn’t feel like a superhero, or that he wasn’t an Avenger on paper; if someone needed his help, he had to be functional, or at least as functional as he could be, in his new state of perpetual gloomy distraction.

“Hey, Peter, you’re with us?”

“Leave him be, Michelle.”

Ned had this concerned look about him again. Peter forced a smile to his lips; even if the bitter taste on his tongue, always coating the insides of his mouth these days, threatened to have him grimace instead.

“What were you saying about the new movie?”

“Eat your sandwich,” Michelle intervened before Ned could go on another roll. “Eat it now or lose it forever.”

Peter’s chest tightened. _It will be only this once, right, Peter?_

“You can have it.”

*

The first time he went out on patrol after _it_ , he got punched in the face by the villain of the day.

He must have let it happen; he usually didn’t get hit from that close up, even less so by amateurs like this one drug dealer who’d decided it was a good idea to frighten a woman and her children in his neighborhood.

Peter let it happen, and then slammed his knee into the man’s belly, sending him flying against a concrete wall. He shot a couple of webs to keep him there and ran over to him, barely holding back on strength when he aimed a kick in the man’s ribs.

A disgusting crunch broke the silence, then a frightened cry. The woman backed away with her children, a mixture of relief and fear brimming in her eyes. The apple in her daughter’s tiny fingers fell to the ground and rolled over to Peter’s feet.

The memory linked to that particular fruit turned his anger to another kind of heat: yearning.

Then another: shame. 

He bent down to check if the drug dealer still breathed, and then leaped onto a staircase and left the street before he could damage Spiderman’s image even more.

*

When he returned to the headquarters at last, two weeks into the school’s winter semester, he was still waiting for an answer to his texts, but figured that he would see the man face to face.

He was wrong.

Mr. Stark wasn’t at the headquarters that day. When Peter asked Dr. Banner about it (the whole team plus one wayward little spider were supposed to be there, after all), the older man looked concerned.

“He should be there. I was going to call him.”

Peter didn’t trust himself to _not_ destroy his cellphone should he get Mr. Stark’s voicemail (or should he actually reach the man himself), so he opted for the other option and ask Friday.

“He’s missed on another meeting with Ms. Potts to follow a lead on Doom,” the AI informed him. “I’ve just notified the others that he won’t be back in time for your meeting.”

Peter wondered why she added that first bit about the meeting with Ms. Potts. The next words got out in the open before he could think better.

“Is this also why he hasn’t answered any of my texts?”

Silence fell. Peter let it stretch as long as he could bear (five seconds).

“Never mind,” he said hurriedly, nervousness blooming in his chest. “Just tell me if he’s safe.”

“He is. Captain Rogers is with him.”

Peter’s jaw drop. “What? But-”

“Peter.” Friday’s voice was soft, gentle. “I am monitoring both of their vitals as we speak. Boss has the best defensive weapon system there is; the one he invented. And you and I might not like the new… guest, but he has proven himself useful in tracking Doom, so we have to bear with him.”

Barton appeared at the corner of the corridor, Widow in tow. They both spoke in low voices and stared at Peter when he finally remembered that he was in a public-ish space and snapped his mouth shut.

“Ok.”

He spent the whole meeting using that two-letter word like a shield. Thoughts of Mr. Stark filled every nook and cranny of his mind. He wondered if he’s truly safe. He trusted Friday with his own life, but his wariness towards Rogers couldn’t be helped. Traitors should be treated as such, even if they pretend to be helpful.

He wondered if Mr. Stark deleted his texts as soon as he’d received them, if they _annoyed_ him. He wondered if the older man thought back on what had transpired in that room; when he’d asked him to stay, when he’d thanked him… when he’d cried out his name.

He didn’t wonder if Mr. Stark regretted it, because it was clear as day. The older man must regret every time he’d touched Peter; that one pat on the shoulder, that kiss on his brow, the massage he’d given his ankle, and _those fingers he’d sucked…_ He must think that Peter was just another fan that he really didn’t need in his life. Another annoyance.

And yet he worked incessantly with a former (?) enemy to bring down the monster who’d hurt Peter.

In some way or another, he cared about him.

Peter couldn’t sleep that night.

*

After another week of radio silence, Peter had had enough.

He’d tried calling Mr. Stark, twice only, so as not to appear as needy as he knew he was. It helped to focus on his shame at having spied on Mr. Stark naked in his own rooms. It helped to throw himself into school work, and to avoid the headquarters, the latest which may or may not have raised a few eyebrows. He still didn’t sleep well, still couldn’t forget, but he tried to find some satisfaction in knowing that Mr. Stark was as safe as he ever was. He had Friday.

He didn’t need Peter. Wouldn’t have needed him even without his AI. He had a whole team at his back. Why would he be friends with a sixteen-year-old _kid_ who had refused his offer to be part of the Avengers? The rejection must have felt personal. After all, Tony Stark didn’t make such an offer to just anyone.

And Peter was no one, no one in love with _the_ one whose voice he couldn’t hear, whose face he couldn’t see outside of his own mind and painful memories.

He tossed back another chug of beer. He was so very thankful that there was yet another difference between him and Rogers: he could get drunk. And it didn’t matter if he got wasted tonight; who would know? May was out, and he’d already made a quick patrol to ensure that everything was fine in his area. The only person who could be ashamed of his behavior was himself, and he could deal with that later.

So he drank. He drank until he felt light-headed and a little bit less desperate. When he emptied his seventh beer before the hour was over, he could have sworn that he’d gone back in time to when it hadn’t mattered so much that Mr. Stark didn’t return his feelings. When friendship was enough. When that smile made up for the hole in his chest.

One moment he was sitting on the floor of his room, surrounded by both empty and full beers, and the next he was hanging upside down his window in the suit, watching the ground stars. It made sense in his mind: the city lights were ground stars, as opposed to sky stars. And there was even a ground comet brightening at the edge of his vision, growing bigger and bigger, fabulously white against the darkness of night…

Suddenly, the comet took on the shape of a man. No, not a man; a suit. The faceplate lifted down (or up, depending on the perspective), and Mr. Stark’s face appeared. He was as pretty upside down as he was the other way around.

“While your webs are strong, kid, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be in that position with that much alcohol in your system… or that you should have drunk so much in the first place.”

Peter blinked. Mr. Stark’s lips were very red; so much more pretty and soft-looking than that woman’s dress. The words _kiss me_ were on his lips, ready to tumble and break the silence…

“Why don’t you like me?” he asked instead.

If he wasn’t so drunk, he would probably be horrified at himself, but that was the benefit of dulled senses. Chuckling to himself at the weird expression on Mr. Stark’s face, he spun around his handful of spider silk to crouch on the window’s edge.

Mr. Stark’s face wasn’t too weird from this new perspective. He even recognized the artful arrangement of those charming features; worry.

“Why don’t you li-”

He didn’t get to repeat his question; gravity was suddenly beckoning at him from down below. Peter braced himself for a serious fall and barely felt any fear at all, because he not falling, was he, he was _flying-_

“Fucking hell, kid, do you want to give me heart attack?”

He was not flying, Peter realized; he was floating, held in the Iron Man suit's powerful arms.

In Mr. Stark’s arms.

Tony’s arms.

There was a weird expression on that handsome face again, but this time, it was not a matter of perspective, and Peter remained puzzled. Happy, too, like he finally got to warm his hands and feet after a long walk in the snow. Mr. Stark was holding him, was looking at him for the first time in weeks.

“Kid…” The older man’s voice was hoarse. “How can you think that I don’t-” He glanced away, his throat bobbing up and down. “I’ve always liked you, kid.”

“Peter,” Peter whispered.

Mr. Stark’s eyes seemed to blend in with the night. “Peter,” he whispered back. “Tell me why you decided to get drunk for the first time.”

Peter didn’t ask how Mr. Stark knew; it was obvious, just as obvious as the answer to his question.

“You know why. Look at me.”

It was so easy to not fear the consequences right now, to not fear anything. Emboldened by the wide eyes watching him, he cupped Mr. Stark's chin.

“I really wished you would see me.” Like I see you, he finished in his head.

The older man’s face closed completely, much to Peter’s chagrin. The night sky and its flickering activities was next to vanish. Eventually, Peter realized that he was lying in a bed. His own bed. He sensed that Mr. Stark was still here, but he couldn’t see him.

“Sleep, kid.”

“Will you kiss me?” The words, at last, fell from his lips.

“I have to go back to the headquarters,” Mr. Stark said evasively.

His voice, Peter thought, sounded rough. Next he pondered on the words themselves. Not ‘I can’t’ or ‘I don’t want to’. The reasoning felt familiar, somehow.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ok.” He was beginning to like that word again, not that he remembered why he'd exiled it from his vocabulary in the first place. “Will you stop ignoring me, at least?”

“I- I’m sorry, kid.”

The sudden pressure on his hand must be the Iron Man suit holding it, Peter realized with elation. “Are you apologizing because you’re ignoring me?”

Mr. Stark laughed. It sounded forced and rueful. “That’s probably the only _good_ thing I’ve done recently.”

“But-”

“I still haven’t caught Doom,” Mr. Stark cut him, his voice intense, deep, sending shivers down Peter’s spine. “Nor have I located any of the super soldiers. I try to protect you, _Peter,_ because I care about you and I like you, you must know that-”

“Then why don’t you want to see me anymore?" Peter's heart sped up. "I thought you wanted-”

The gauntlet on his hand moved to his mouth at lightning speed.

Peter moaned, and then the gauntlet was gone. He huffed out in exasperation. “Then why?” he repeated, voice laced with hesitation and self-hatred. “Why have I done to-”

“I’m just trying to protect you!”

“I know that!”

“And if I have to protect you against myself too, I will do it, whatever the cost!”

Mr. Stark had dropped to one knee. He looked exhausted. So fragile, in that suit of armor that should make him invincible.

Peter struggled to arrange his thoughts in a logical sentence.

“And if I don’t want you to stay away? If I don’t think _it_ was a mistake? What if-”

“Kid-”

“Are you happy, Mr. Stark?”

The silence felt like a punch to the guts, but Peter held himself still. He couldn’t cry, he knew. Not for this conversation.

“No.”

Peter almost didn’t hear his answer; it was no more than a shift in the air. His heart squeezed painfully. “I want you to be happy, you know.”

“And I... I want you to be happy, kid.”

The gauntlet found its way back to his hand and laced their fingers together; Peter wondered if Mr. Stark simply couldn’t help himself; if  _it_ had forced both of them to acknowledge a truth that might have remained buried otherwise. For a heartbeat, he lost himself in the warmth of proximity, in the certainty that at least for now, there existed something between them, no matter how tenuous. It was all going to work out in the end; he knew it would.

“Mr. Stark-”

“Sleep, Peter.”

The words spread like wildfire in Peter’s veins, and before he knew it, Mr. Stark was gone, and so was his room, and the sadness keeping the hole in his heart wide open.


End file.
